


whiskey and melancholia (that's just how i like it)

by hiraethia



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Gen, It's different, M/M, a documentation, except he meets each of the foxes at a different point in time, neil's life on the run, sadness and sorrow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethia/pseuds/hiraethia
Summary: before he was neil josten, he was chris sears. before he was chris sears, he was alex field. before he was alex field, he was evan abbott.before everything, he was nathaniel wesninski. during everything, he was no-name abram.(in which neil meets the foxes on the run, but they don't remember him).





	1. kevin day and nathaniel wesninski, 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kevin gave nathaniel a glimpse of the future he could never have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: non-graphic description of violence

Mary Hatford was no hero. Her face was gaunt, her eyes were perpetually shadowed, her dark brown hair barely brushed over her shoulders, and her mouth was a flat line. No sign of life flickered in her features other than the occasional wildfire of anger that would light up her dark eyes or the grim smile that twitched on her lips when Nathaniel stopped another striker from scoring a goal in his Exy games.

She was a barren forest, populated with only a single raven with a broken wing. 

So when she stole Nathaniel away in the dead of night from right underneath his father's nose, that raven flew away with all of its might. It was only a matter time before it would plummet, but Mary forced Nathaniel to run anyways. Hope was a hot commodity that they could not afford.

Nathaniel didn't know what snapped in the hours before. Maybe Mary found someone else in her forest, and a twig broke. Leaves fluttered. The wind knocked. 

But he had only been in Edgar Allan University, playing with the soon-to-be famous Kevin Day and Riko Moriyama. Nothing had gone wrong. Nothing was supposed to go wrong.

"Two on one," Riko had announced, twirling his racquet like a sword in his hands. "Nathaniel will defend us."

Nathaniel was too excited to even be playing to protest the unfairness of Riko's idea. He grabbed his racquet and got into position, adjusting his grip on the shaft and staring at the other two as they stood on the starting line. 

"Go!"

Kevin passed the ball to Riko, who snatched it with grace and began sprinting toward the goal. Nathaniel gritted his teeth and darted toward him, managing to catch the tail-end of Riko's stick before he could make it to goal. It butchered his shot and the ball missed its target by a scant two inches.

"Nice!" Kevin remarked brightly as Riko grabbed another ball. Nathaniel couldn't help but break out into a wide grin, not bothering to wince when the bruises his father left on his cheek twinged in pain at the motion. 

The Court was Nathaniel's haven, after all. He wasn't the son of a murderer or the punching bag of his family - he was just a kid with no name but the one he wanted. He didn't care if it painted his teeth bloody and his body blue and black with falls and tackles. It was the only semblance of a home he had left.

So he tightened his grip on his racquet and set his feet, bending his knees just slightly to give himself enough leverage to move around quickly. Riko started this time, passing the ball directly to Kevin before trying to move around Nathaniel. 

As Nathaniel moved to intercept Riko, Kevin darted around him and began sprinting for goal. Nathaniel tried to get in front of him, resulting in Kevin bowling him over and scoring a point anyways.

The goal lit up red, Kevin's joyful laughter bounced off the empty bleachers, and Nathaniel jumped up before Riko could offer him a hand.

They kept playing for a while until Nathaniel was too exhausted and out of breath to keep up with them. He was fast, but he didn't quite have enough endurance for two of the best budding Exy players in the country.

Riko walked off the court to where his uncle stood, blending in with the darkness of the painted walls. Kevin stayed behind to help Nathaniel clean up the balls and tipped-over cones. Once they cleaned up everything, Nathaniel managed to straighten his aching back and look Kevin in the eye, without a helmet to separate them. 

Kevin wasn't much taller than Nathaniel, only by a few inches. His obsidian hair was messy and stuck up in strange places, and his face was slightly reddened by the exertion. His green eyes were brilliant and piercing, contrasting with the stark number 2 marked on his left cheek.

"Why are you always two?" Nathaniel asked once he could summon the breath. Kevin froze for a second, before his shoulders loosened and he shrugged.

"Dunno. Riko beat me to it," he said. Holding his stick over his shoulder, he asked, "Are you gonna keep playing?"

"Huh?"

"Exy. You going to be a pro?"

Nathaniel's life had always been a series of sunrises and sunfalls. Wait for the sun to rise first, then start on with the day. Don't think about anything else after it falls, because it might not rise again. His future was a whole mess of a gray area that he hadn't even bothered trying to discern.

Kevin tilted his head to the side disapprovingly when Nathaniel remained silent. "You should keep playing. I think you have potential."

And just like that, Kevin Day jumpstarted the still heart of Nathaniel's hope - and it started beating, beating, _pulsing._ Nathaniel felt the smile crossing his face before he could stop it, and it was breathless and terrified and exhilarated all at the same time. 

"You really think that?" he asked, his voice higher than usual.

"Yeah!" Kevin reached out, tapping Nathaniel's cheek lightly in the same spot where his number was. "Maybe you'll be number three. With us."

"Kevin." 

Tetsuji Moriyama interrupted them before Nathaniel could say anything. His eyebrows were drawn together as he looked at the two of them, before he focused on only Nathaniel. "Your father is here for you." He glanced at Kevin, jerking his head toward the tower. "You come as well."

Kevin fell quiet, following his coach with Nathaniel close behind him. He tried to disguise the sudden icy fear that had coated his heart at the mention of his father's name. Nathan had no reason to be here as far as Nathaniel was concerned. He was only playing Exy.

They eventually walked up to the tower where his father was. Tetsuji opened the door, stepping up behind Riko. Nathaniel stepped in first before Kevin, hiding the trembling of his fists behind his back as he looked around and - 

He saw the figure of the man, tied up at the wrists and ankles, on the floor. 

He saw his father standing there, a cleaver in his hands and manic glint in his blue eyes.

He saw his tentative future crumbling at the seams, falling apart like ashes in the cold, cold wind.

"This is a warning."

Nathaniel didn't register who said it, before his father was taking the man apart. He could hear the horrified gasp from Kevin and didn't need to look over to see the sheer look of _terror_ covering the striker's face. He didn't need to look over at Riko to see how close he was to throwing up as Nathan took the man apart, bit by bit, limb by limb, until the ringing in Nathaniel's ears was replaced by bloodcurdling screams and cackling.

He didn't remember being herded from the building, nor did he remember what Tetsuji said to him as he was leaving.

He only remembered the firm grip of his mother's hands on his shoulders as she took him home. He only remembered how dark the night was when she woke him up again and forced him to run with her. He only remembered the weight of the duffel bag cutting into his shoulder as Mary sped away in their car, only to ditch it a hundred miles away to burn.

He only remembered that he couldn't thank Kevin for giving him a glimpse into the future that he would never have - not now, not ever. 

Not as long as he survived.


	2. seth gordon and john ross, 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seth gave john his hand-me-downs.

John remained huddled outside of the empty gas station, shivering in the worn remnants of his jacket as his mother bought as many supplies from the convenience store as possible without looking suspicious. She left him in charge of watching their stolen car. The cold chilled him to the bone, turning his breath into frost and his nose numb.

Their new fake IDs had been courtesy to one of Mary's - now Anna's - contacts, a person that John didn't know. He only knew that he had to hold onto his ID for as long as they stayed in Alabama. They were quite a ways from Nathan, but there was no guarantee one of his men couldn't show up at any time here.

He ran his quivering hands up and down his arms. He thought his fingers might fall off, they were so numb. John looked over his shoulder, wishing his mother would hurry up already. 

He glanced in the mirror of the car. His auburn hair had been dyed a dirty blond, and his father's icy blue eyes were covered by a pair of gray contacts. Uninteresting and inconspicuous. That was what Anna had drilled into John's head while they were picking out hair dyes, contacts, names, and personalities for their new identities. 

John Ross was a quiet, unassuming kid. He was supposed to be shy, someone nobody wanted to talk to because he was that uninteresting. John wasn't that good at acting just yet, but he would have a while to get used to it. He just had to shut his mouth and let Anna do the talking, for now.

\-- 

He remembered staying in a miserable motel room with Anna a state away. There had been no heating, and the bed sheets were worn and thin. John sat on the bed, struggling to dress himself in something more comfortable, while Anna stayed near the window, staring at the empty highway.

"Mom?" he'd whispered. 

Anna glanced at him. Her dark brown hair was dyed blond like John's, and it would have made her look younger if not for the dark shadows under her eyes. "Yes?"

John swallowed against the rock in his throat. He picked the bed sheets, pulling out a loose thread and watching it unravel. "What's going to happen now?"

His words drifted like the first snowfall of winter. She paused, her breath fogging the glass. After a long minute of silence, she left her perch by the window and joined John on the bed. For once, he wasn't greeted with harsh fists or reprimands hissed between gritted teeth, but a soft hand pressed to the back of his head. He couldn't entirely suppress the flinch that ran through his body when Anna raised her hand, but she didn't chastise him for it.

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

John stared at his mother. The moonlight carved deep silver lines onto her face. They looked like war trenches and rivers, running across the topography of her skin. John wondered what she looked like in her baby pictures. She'd never shown him any pictures of her when she was younger, but he couldn't imagine her as anything but the woman in front of him right now. 

He probably would never get to see pictures of her.

He sighed quietly at the thought, his breath shaking as it left his lungs. "Is this...it?" he asked. He kept his voice quiet, half conditioned by his mother, half because it felt like he was telling a secret anyways. "Is this how it'll end? You and me, on the run for the rest of our lives?" 

Anna gazed at him. The darkness of the room made her eyes look deeper than usual, and John could almost see tragedy squirming under her skin. 

"Maybe," was all she said. It was all John needed and didn't need to hear. It was a death sentence and promise all in a word, a condemnation to a miserable excuse of a life, but a life nonetheless. 

His heart trembled, twisted with this strange melancholia that maybe would have tasted like the rawest vodka if he let it out. John knew that people - regular people - marked their birthdays. 10 years-old: the first double digits. 16 years-old: the sweet one. 18 years-old: an adult. 21 years-old: legal. But John wasn't like regular people, and he never would be. He would count down his days because every one could be his last, and he knew he would be lucky to make it past another decade to 20. 

He couldn't quite stop the tears from escaping, but for once, Anna didn't punish him for it. She let him lean against her shoulder, let his tears wet her sweater, and let him rest there for as long as he needed. It was a gentler side to his mother that John had never seen, not even as Nathaniel. It opened his floodgates wide and he thought he could unleash a downpour upon her if only he had the energy.

Anna rested her chin against the top of his head. Her fingers, calloused and strong, combed through his hair. "You never asked for this, Abram," she whispered. An apology, whispered over breath stained with whiskey and regret.

Together, their shadows looked like a monster, hunched over and bleeding out. In hiding, but with a foot caught in a trap and waiting to be caught.

John fell asleep not long afterwards with his mother's whispers of _Abram_ in his ears. Anna covered him in all the blankets and stayed awake while he slept, her weight on the bed a comforting reminder that as long as she still breathed, she would protect him. 

And he would protect her.

\-- 

John exhaled shakily, forcing himself to get out of his own head and resorting to leaning against the side of the car. He could just go back inside where it was marginally warmer, but it would make the car seem empty, and that would draw suspicion.

As he leaned against the car, his knees threatened to give out. They'd been alternating between walking and running for days on end before finally settling for hot-wiring the nearest car.

He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing, but purposely pressing his cold fingers against the bare skin of his wrist to prevent himself from drifting off. He rested for a few moments before the sound of gravel moving had his eyes shooting open and his body reacting before he could think.

A car pulled into the gas station, its headlights bright and blinding. John blinked rapidly to get rid of the spots in his vision as it stopped nearby, and someone stepped out of the driver's seat to grab the red gas nozzle. 

John looked away, allowing himself to relax back against the car. He'd keep an eye on the person, but it just looked like they were trying to get gas. That was all.

He stared at the ground, trying to wiggle his numb toes. He figured if his mother was feeling merciful, she'd take them to a store to buy new socks and jackets soon. 

"Hey, you. Kid." 

John's head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. He scrambled off the side of the car, straightening up and clenching his trembling fingers inside his pockets. 

A tall boy was making his way toward him, the same person who had pulled up in the car. John swept his gaze across his body quickly, gathering any bits of information that might be helpful to him in a fight. _Look if they are carrying weapons. Look at their body stance. Look at their facial expressions,_ his mother's voice echoed in his ears. 

The boy didn't look all that intimidating. He had dark skin, a buzz cut, a piercing on his left ear, and brooding eyes. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and worn jeans, but his loose stance gave no indication that he was about to attack John.

"You look like you're freezing your ass off," the boy remarked gruffly, eyeing John's frayed jacket. John glanced down at himself, willing his uncooperative body to stop shivering so hard.

"I'm not," he managed to reply.

The boy scoffed, before taking his hands out of his pockets. John immediately tracked the movements, but his racing fear was halted when the boy did nothing except strip his gloves off. 

"I bet you're an inch away from frostbite, kid." The boy paused, gripping his gloves, before asking, "What's your name?"

John darted a subtle glance over his shoulder back at the store. He could see the outline of his mother's figure at the back of the store near the liquor section. He wet his chapped lips, wincing quietly when a sudden gust of wind stung his brittle skin. 

"J-John," he said as smoothly as he could. The boy shrugged, his breath billowing out like smoke as he joined John by the car.

"'M Seth." He tossed the gloves at John, who barely managed to catch them. They nearly slipped out of his shaking hands, and Seth raised his thick eyebrows. "Those'll be big on you, but it's better than nothing."

John stared at Seth with wide eyes. He'd only been on the run for about several months, yet he couldn't remember how sweet kindness tasted on his tongue, like melting honey and summer rain.

He'd lost his name, his freedom, and his identity. But here was Seth, a stranger, giving him a pair of gloves for absolutely no reason at all other than he was freezing.

Seth clicked his tongue while staring at John. Some emotion must've shown too obviously on his face, so John immediately tried to school his face into a neutral expression. 

"W-Why?" he stammered, his breath leaving him in a shuddering exhale.

The boy shrugged. "Mom's gone, Dad's left, everyone's busy. I took the car out for a drive, but it started to run out of gas. So here we are."

"That's...t-that's not what I asked," John whispered.

Seth's eyes hardened. "Take the stupid gloves, kid. I'm not the one waiting out in the fucking cold in the middle of the night for no one."

John gazed at the gloves in his hands. They were definitely too large for him, but he thought it would feel nice if his fingers were at least shielded from the cold. 

Seth sighed again, before unzipping his jacket and taking it off. John stared at him as he walked up to him and draped it over his shoulders. 

"Just take it, goddammit." Seth's voice was quieter, softer. John thought he could hear a few broken edges in his voice too. "These are my dad's. I have no use for them anyways."

The weight of Seth's jacket pressed warmly against John's shoulders. Loneliness remained a bone-deep ache in his body, a pain that only worsened when he realized that he would never see Seth again in his life. That Seth might as well have been an angel, for seeing John when he was supposed to be invisible.

But his shivering lessened, and John thought his lungs could start working again.

"T-Thank you," he finally managed to say. 

He didn't quite manage to thank Kevin - but he was going to thank Seth. 

Seth's face twitched, before he shrugged again. "No problem. I'll see you around, I guess." He started to walk away, but glanced over his shoulder on the way back to his car. 

"Hey," he said. John looked up from where he was struggling to fit his fingers into Seth's gloves. "Good luck, kid."

John stared at Seth as he hopped back into his car, slamming the door shut and pulling out of the station. 

He mouthed a goodbye that refused to be voiced, his throat too tight and numb to let the words pass. Anna told John not to let himself hurt - that this was what would get them killed. 

But he tugged Seth's jacket closer around himself anyways. It smelled of stale cologne and faint cinnamon, falling past John's waist and stretching over his knuckles as he slipped his arms through the thick sleeves. He would have a lot of explaining to do when Anna got back, which would more than likely end up with a beating for accepting kindness from a stranger - _they're too dangerous, Abram, are you stupid?_ \- but he didn't care. He was warm. 

He felt a drop of rain land on the tip of his nose. John looked up, only to have a couple more fall onto his face. The rain slipped down his cheeks, cold and numb - and maybe his eyes started raining too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't like seth but he deserved better than what he got
> 
> i almost made myself cry writing that scene in the motel so,, hope y'all enjoyed? *jazz hands out of here*


	3. allison reynolds and noah dubois, 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> allison gave noah a lesson in conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few changes from canon: 
> 
> \- i'm messing around with the timelines of when neil n mary went to europe on the run, so they work with the order i have planned in which neil will meet the foxes. but it's definitely gonna be different from the book.
> 
> \- neil is still envious of kevin and riko, but in here he doesn't keep that gigantic binder shrine thingy for them. he doesn't really keep up with them, just thinks about them from afar. this is so he doesn't realize that he's met all of the foxes, until he actually does. (if that makes sense) 
> 
> <3

"What is your name?" Nina asked, her voice strangely distorted from her French accent.

Noah chewed on his lip, before wincing as his teeth sank into a fresh cut in the flesh. "Noah Dubois."

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from here. Paris, France," he answered in French.

"What does your family do?" 

"My father and mother separated when I was six," he said. "I live with my mother now. She works at the nearby bistro."

Nina nodded, satisfied. She tossed an English-to-French dictionary at him along with a grammar and vocabulary book. "I will do the talking for now. Your accent and pronunciations still need work."

"I'm sorry," Noah mumbled, peeling the skin around his thumbnail back. Nina leaned forward, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his head forward. A slight jolt of pain ran through his scalp at her rough handling, but he bit back his small whine. He'd suffered worse before.

"Let me check your roots," Nina said in English.

Noah remained still and pliant as she checked to make sure nothing auburn showed in his new black hair. She finally let him go after a long minute, standing up and heading toward the window of their cheap apartment. 

"I'm going to the market," she said. "You stay here and practice your conjugations."

"But what if - "

"Be quiet," Nina hissed. She grabbed a gun from their drawer, tucking it skillfully underneath her thick jacket so that not even an outline of it showed. "Make yourself useful for once."

Noah snapped his mouth shut, sinking against the mattress with the bitter weight of frustration clutching his chest. Nina cast him a cursory glance, before promising to be back in at most an hour. 

"When I come back, you will hear the knock I showed you. You know what to do if I'm not back by then."

He mumbled a goodbye, watching as his mother zipped up her jacket and left their tiny rental, shutting the door with a crisp click behind her.

Noah hated being left alone. His mother was always a constant at his side, a knife lodged in his hip. Whenever she left, it left the wound gaping open, ready for infection.

Tucking his books against his chest, Noah moved onto the living room couch. It was a ratty old thing, and the springs whined loudly as he sat down on the cushions, but it was better than nothing. He sat with his back pressed against the sofa so that he was half-hidden by the doorway, but he'd be able to see and hear any movement outside. 

His heart was constant drumbeat in his chest. The longer Nina was away, the harder it pounded, like resounding knocks against the door of Nathan and his men coming to kill him. Noah clenched his fists, unable to concentrate on his verb charts because the letters were swimming off the page. 

He snapped the book shut, glancing at the clock. About twenty minutes had passed. He jumped off the couch, sneaking a glance out of the dusty window overlooking the busy streets. 

Nina and Noah lived their lives on random chance and calculated risks now. Their names were chosen randomly, but not randomly enough that they were inconspicuous. Their new destinations and cities were chosen randomly with a spin of a globe, the flip of a map, but not random enough that their trail became obvious. Nina had chosen Paris as their next city to settle in because there were more faces - and more faces meant being harder to find.

He glanced down at his fingers where they were shaking. Noah stepped away from the window and retreated to the one bedroom he shared with his mother, collapsing onto the bed and closing his eyes. 

Sometimes he stayed up at night, not because he was afraid that the creak above them was someone hunting them down - but because he looked at the stars in the sky. Most of them were dead anyways - collapsed, suffocated, buried under their own weight. Lovers kissed underneath celestial corpses, friends frolicked underneath a graveyard sky, and Noah stared at thousands of unfinished funerals. He would wonder what would happen if he died. If anyone would mourn him or remember that he was a boy who once existed. 

(There was no way Nina would mourn him. If Noah died, that would only have to mean she was dead too).

It was more than likely that the world would go on without Noah Dubois or his ghost, Nathaniel Wesninski. The world would forget him and trample over him, and maybe they would learn of his brutal murder at the hands of his father and stop for a moment to wonder, _how could the world be so cruel?_

But it wasn't the world that was cruel - it was the people living in it. 

Nobody grieved for the stars, and nobody would grieve for Noah either. 

He tucked his knees to his chest and waited for Nina's knocks to sound. He clutched his burner phone in his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white, and began to time the minutes that were passing.

Nina came back exactly seven minutes and twenty five seconds later.

\-- 

Noah had been in Paris with his mother for around a month now. Aside from attending the international school Nina had enrolled him, he occasionally visited the markets and her workplace, the bistro, and he managed to pick up even more French there. He was close to becoming completely fluent, so Nina allowed him to come with her to work whenever he didn't have school. It made her feel better, too, to have him close.

Noah sat at an empty table in the bistro by the window. He was close enough to the exit that he'd be able to make a quick getaway if necessary, and also close enough to his mother that she could check in occasionally. 

He'd brought along his schoolwork, but instead of doing his grammar homework he was watching the Exy match playing on the TV. Wistfulness curled inside his gut, and for a moment Noah could feel the smoothness of a racquet back in his hands, and he could hear Kevin's voice telling him that he could be number 3 alongside him and Riko.

He was so distracted that he didn't notice the striker from the French team scoring another point, or the sharp clicking of footsteps approaching his table.

"Bonjour."

Noah looked away from the Exy match to see a young girl staring at him. She didn't look to be more than a few years older than Noah, but she looked fresh off a runway. Blond curls tumbled across tanned shoulders, and her bright red lipstick matched her sundress. He noticed a faint circular bruise marking her collarbone, half hidden away by her hair.

She cleared her throat, smiling playfully. Blood rushed to Noah's face when he realized he must've been staring at her for too long. He immediately looked away at his hands, replying, "Bonjour, mademoiselle."

The girl pointed at the empty chair in front of Noah. "Mind if I sit here?" she asked in perfect English. Noah stared at her some more, before she rolled her eyes and said, "I'm not actually French. Just here on a business trip. This is the only empty seat and you don't look that annoying." Frowning, she asked, "You do speak English, right? You have those grammar sheets, so I just assumed."

Noah glanced around helplessly for his mother. She worked in the back kitchen, so she wouldn't be able to keep an eye on him the entire. He chewed on his lip, unsure of what to do other than nod hesitantly.

The girl broke out into a much larger smile, before sitting down in the chair and clasping her hands together. "Thanks," she said, before reaching down and taking off her shoes with a relieved groan. "God, I hate these heels. I'm Allison, by the way."

Noah forced himself to smile - or at least, he hoped he did. "I'm Noah," he replied quietly.

"Hey, Noah. You look like a sweetheart," Allison said, brushing her hair behind one ear. "Speaking of which - why are you all alone? No offense, you don't look older than twelve."

"My mom works here," Noah replied coolly. 

"Oh, cool." Allison glanced at the TV he was watching earlier, and something changed in her expression when she saw the Exy match that was playing. Noah latched onto the change immediately, tensing and pressing his heels against the floor. 

But then a faint smile crossed Allison's ruby lips, one of fierce pride and satisfaction. "You like Exy?" she asked. 

Noah nearly flinched at her words. He still remembered what happened last time he expressed those same words to Nina. He could still remember her screaming voice in his ears, her angry slaps, and the sting of her exact words. 

"Your old life is over!" she'd hissed, grabbing him by the hair and tugging him close so that her breath hit him right in the face. "As long as you're still alive, there is no chance you will _ever_ even _think_ about touching a racquet."

He swallowed harshly, wringing his hands. "N-Not really," he said quietly.

Allison raised her eyebrows skeptically. "Really?" Clicking her nails together, she shrugged. "I do. That's where I got my bruise, actually. Some dick threw a ball at me while my gear was off. I play on my school team, but my parents hate it. They want me to be their heiress or model or something. I'm not about that."

Noah wanted nothing more than to leave at that moment. He spent so much of his time either studying French or looking over his shoulder that he didn't know how to carry a proper conversation anymore.

"Oh?" he managed to say, and Allison's grin turned sharp.

"Oh yes," she said. Before she could elaborate further, she turned and flagged down a waiter. She requested in French, "Hi, may I have a croissant and coffee?" Glancing at Noah, she asked in English, "Do you want anything, kiddo?"

Noah shook his head silently, and the waiter left with a curt smile. Allison rested her chin on her hands, pursing her lips. After a short moment, she said, "Sorry for just dishing my problems to you. I'm trying to escape the paparazzi and my responsibilities." 

At the mention of the possibility of cameras, Noah felt his entire body freeze over. He asked numbly, "Paparazzi?", clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms.

Allison raised her eyebrows again. "Oh, it's fine. I lost them a while back."

Noah couldn't help but glance out the window for any hidden cameras. It was likely that his father wouldn't recognize him any more if he saw him, but being captured in public was so unsettling that a chill clung to his bones.

The waiter came back with Allison's orders. She gave him a large tip and sipped at her coffee slowly, gazing at Noah.

"You ever been around girls?" she asked, her lips curving into a smirk.

Noah chewed his lip, shrugging. Allison seemed thoroughly amused now, smiling fully into her coffee and watching him with a twinkle in her eyes. "Most people say, you know, _how are you doing_ or _I like your dress_ , as long as it's not creepy," she said.

"I like your dress," Noah said quietly. Allison laughed, the sound warm and golden. 

"Oh. You're so cute." She went back to watching the Exy match, occasionally checking her phone whenever it buzzed. They sat in silence, Noah's homework completely forgotten as he too dragged his gaze to the TV.

For some reason he was fine with Allison sitting there. She was perplexing, but she didn't feel dangerous. Noah felt a pang of bitterness in his chest as he watched the same French striker put in a winning goal. 

Nina was right. He'd never have what he wanted, but that never stopped him from wanting. 

The game transitioned into post-match interviews and then commercials. Noah glanced back at Allison, who was fiddling with the handle of her cup, her croissant untouched. 

"Aren't you going to eat that?" he asked, unsure of what else to fill the silence with. Allison blinked as if startled out of a daydream, glancing at her bread and pursing her lips.

"I don't know. Do you want it?" she asked, tearing off a small piece of eating it. Then she wrinkled her nose. "It's too buttery. What did I expect? This is France."

Noah shrugged, and she pushed the plate toward him. "You can have it, kiddo. I gotta run anyways. There's this stupid meet-and-greet I have to attend." Allison slipped on her shoes again with a heavy sigh. "Thanks for the break, though. I really appreciated it."

She stood up, and Noah stared at her. He felt vaguely emptier at the prospect of Allison leaving. She felt larger than life, filling in his hollowness and distracting him with bright laughter and wits. Noah didn't want her to leave. He didn't want drop someone the way Nina had taught him to. 

Allison noticed his gaze, and another bright smile crossed her lips. "You look lost, kiddo. Do you have a phone? I'll give you my number."

"Yeah," Noah found himself saying. Allison grabbed a napkin and scribbled down her number, before handing it to him. 

"I'd ask you to watch some of my games, but you don't like Exy." Allison shrugged. "Text me if you want, kiddo."

"Thank you," Noah said hoarsely. Allison gave him a little wave and grin, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she left the bistro. He stared down at her number, written in dark ink and bleeding into the napkin.

It was no use. Nina would make him tear it up, and as soon as he left, he'd have a new phone - and a new identity. 

The thought alone was enough to make his stomach churn and his heart cry out in anger, because Noah never chose this, he never did, but he'd stick with his mother over anyone else. At least, he promised her to. 

He crumpled Allison's napkin in his fist, and took a piece of the croissant. 

It really was too buttery.


	4. natalie shields and sam warden, 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> natalie gave sam her knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: descriptions of injuries and violence (not too graphic), panic attack at the end of the chapter

There weren't many places that would let Sam or Jane get paid under the table, but Jane still forced them to find _some place_ because they had to save their money. She'd only stolen so much from Nathan, and what others considered a fortune was merely a countdown for them.

Sam worked as a cashier at a small restaurant in Detroit. The move from Paris to Quebec then to Detroit had been taxing, but Jane thought they were quite a ways ahead of Nathan by now.

He clocked out of a rather uneventful day at work, the manager handing him a wad of cash and a pat on the back. Sam barely suppressed a flinch, instead smiling shakily at the old man before all but darting out of the darkened restaurant.

The walk from the restaurant to the apartment they'd rented was short, but it didn't stop Sam from constantly checking over his shoulder. His gun remained hidden by the thick fabric of his jacket, its weight reassuringly pressed against his thigh. Sam tightened his grip on duffel, quickening his pace.

Sam inserted his keys into the slot of the apartment door, before rapidly knocking twice in succession, and then knocking once after a three-second pause. Then he swung the door open, shutting it softly behind him and locking it again.

Jane was already back. She worked at the failing laundromat down the street, but the occasional customer was the only thing that kept the business alive. She got up from the ratty couch and hurried toward Sam, pulling him close as her eyes ran over his body, checking for new wounds.

"I'm fine," Sam murmured, dropping his bag at the mouth of the hallway. Jane stared at him for another minute, before nodding curtly and letting him go. She returned to her spot in front of the grainy TV, chewing on her fingernails as she stared at the news.

"Leftovers in the fridge," she said as Sam stood awkwardly around. Glad for something to do, he left for the kitchen, switching on the dim light and grabbing the Chinese takeout they'd gotten two days earlier. 

He sat down at the kitchen table after heating them, forcing it down his throat. He'd quickly grown sick of takeout, but he knew better than to complain. It was better than starving. 

Once Sam had finished, he threw away the container and took a quick shower. The water ran cold quickly, but Sam forced himself to stay put until he was sure he'd managed to clean all his cuts. When he left the bathroom, Jane was still curled on the couch, clutching her burner phone in her hands while staring blankly at the overly cheerful news anchorman relaying the weather.

"Good night," he whispered. If Jane heard him, she ignored him. A bitter taste in his mouth, Sam retreated into the bedroom but left the door ajar. He curled up on the side of the bed closest to the tiny closet, covering himself with the coarse blankets and staring at the blank wall.

He reached under his pillow, only relaxing slightly when his fingertips brushed against the familiar cool metal of his gun. He allowed himself to close his eyes, one hand clutching handle and the other wrapped in the blanket.

On the run, sleeping was only so that they wouldn't collapse. Sam's dreams were plagued with images of his father, the grating noise of Lola's laughter, and the feeling of a knife running across his skin, digging in, breaking in. He saw Kevin running up and down an Exy court, only for it to fill with blood and limbs the next second. Nathan's icy blue eyes greeted him next, pupils little more than pinpricks as he grinned wildly.

 _"Come out, come out, wherever you are, Nathaniel,"_ he sang. 

Sam jerked awake, gasping. Then he immediately froze when he felt the weight on the other side of the bed, fingers curling around his gun as he struggled to find a balance between shutting up and catching his breath.

The sheets rustled. Jane's shadow spread across the room as she turned toward Sam, her expression hidden away in the darkness. 

"M-Mom - "

"Abram." Her voice was quiet but commanding, enough for Sam's plea to wither on his tongue and for him to stop fidgeting. Jane moved closer, her freshly cut hair falling across her face as she eyed the gun in Sam's trembling hands. "Drop it."

Sam dropped the gun, and Jane took it off his chest. She turned it this way and that, observing it, before taking out a cloth and wiping off the muzzle. Sam forced his uncooperative body to sit up, still trembling with the remnants of his nightmare and Nathan singing into his ear. 

"Sorry," he muttered. Jane set the gun down. 

"Apologizing is useless," she said. Sam could hear the reassurance tucked into her voice, under layers of trained secrecy and harshness. _It's okay._

"What time is it?" 

"4:30." Jane returned to her position at the foot of the bed, gazing out the window. "Go back to sleep, Abram."

Sam didn't quite feel okay enough to fall back asleep, but he settled back down and watched his mother's silvery figure out of the corner of his eye. He gazed at her until exhaustion finally won him over and pulled him away.

\-- 

Work was endlessly boring to the point of pain, but Sam went through it for the money. He served several customers who eyed him warily, with one old lady even asking how old he was. Sam had forced himself to offer the politest smile he could summon, before asking her if she'd like fries on the side.

Sam took a break from his shift around noon, letting some girl named Josie take over for him. He stepped out in front of the restaurant, sitting down on the curb with a heavy sigh. He was careful not to relax, to keep an eye on his surroundings at all times the way his mother had taught him, but he still appreciated the fresh city air.

Once his break was finished, Sam went back inside. The sun was beginning to set, and he relieved Josie of her duty and went back to the cash register. Only a few more customers came in, which he was grateful for.

The restaurant closed around nine. Sam was about to clock out when he heard the door bell ringing again.

He looked up, exasperated, only to freeze when he saw the bloodied girl standing in the doorway.

She noticed him standing there, and immediately started stumbling toward him. Sam took a step back, his hand gravitating toward the gun he kept on his hip. The girl staggered up to the counter, leaving bloody hand prints on the freshly cleaned surface, her breathing ragged and heavy.

"Please," she whispered, staring at Sam with wide brown eyes. "I - I just need bandages. P-Please."

"Do you need a hospital?" Sam asked. He felt strangely detached, like he was a spirit watching this whole scene unfold. His eyes fell down to the girl's side, where she was sporting a long gash that was staining her dark sweater black. 

"N-No!" The girl winced at the desperation in her voice. "I-I can't."

A pang of sympathy rang through Sam like a hammer striking a bell. The girl looked wild, like she was a fox with a leg trapped in a steel jaw, waiting for the hunters to close in but still begging and clawing to be let out all the same. 

Sam glanced behind him. The manager wasn't there for some reason, probably talking with a couple more employees in the back room, and it was already close to closing time anyways. 

He bent over and grabbed the first-aid kit he knew was stored underneath the counter, tucking it under his arm and stepping out from his place behind the cash register. "Follow me," he said quietly, not touching the girl but jerking his head toward the back exit. 

He didn't need to look back to check for her; he could hear her uneven footsteps and pained wheezing right behind him.

The back door led to an empty alleyway that they never used - only to occasionally dump out trash. He led the girl back further just in case anyone saw them, before opening up the kit and taking out a roll of clean bandages and a needle.

"How bad?" he asked as the girl slumped against the wall, sliding down to the ground with a sharp sigh.

"Doesn't feel deep," she murmured, brushing her dark hair from her face. "It's just fucking long."

"Can I look?" Sam crouched down, tugging the girl's shirt up as soon as she allowed him to. She was right. The cut wasn't lethal as long as it was cleaned and bandaged properly. It would still need stitches though.

The girl winced quietly when Sam began to clean the cut, wiping off the blood and tossing the towelette aside. Then he stuck the needle between his teeth as he grabbed the thread, putting it through the eye with deft hands and practiced ease, before getting to work.

"Sorry, no anesthetics," he said, though the girl just nodded and let him go. Sam knew how painful it must've been, but the girl didn't show much emotion on her face other than discomfort. As he threaded the needle across her skin and put her back together, he swore he could feel the same sensation on his own scars. The numbing buzz of whiskey and melancholia as his mother stitched his broken pieces together, the hopelessness of being put back together when he still felt so shattered.

He'd just finished stitching the gash when the girl let out a breath and whispered, "My name is Natalie."

Sam peeked up at her. "I'm Sam."

He unrolled the bandages and started wrapping it around her, tight enough that it wouldn't restrict her lungs but would still stop any bleeding. The girl - Natalie - wiped her bloody palms on her jeans and bit her lip.

"You looking to become a doctor?" she asked, probably trying for a light-hearted question that fell short. Sam stared at her as he packed away the bandages and thread, tossing aside the dirty needle. 

"No," he said, quietly. He was just looking to live till he was eighteen.

Natalie blinked, something grim twisting her expression. Like she was looking right at a lost cause, but she couldn't help but want to do something with it. 

"Thanks," she finally said as Sam stood up. 

"You're welcome," Sam replied. He hesitated, before sticking his hand out for the girl to grasp. She glanced at it, her eyes flickering up to his face as if she'd never been offered kindness in her life. Maybe that was what other people thought of Sam. 

She eventually reached up, taking his hand and letting him pull her up. She winced, one hand gravitating toward her newly stitched wound. "I..." she swallowed harshly, frowning. "I'm sorry for just - bursting in like that. I - "

"It's fine," Sam interrupted. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd been through and seen worse. Natalie blinked, before wringing her bloodstained hands together. 

"It was - "

"You don't need to explain." Sam picked up the first-aid kit. 

Something shadowed Natalie's face, a twisted form of relief. Her shoulders slumped. She shifted on her feet, moving her weight off her right leg, and opened her mouth like she wanted to say something else when the back door swung open.

"Sam? Where are you?" It was Josie.

"I'm here," Sam replied, loudly enough that she would hear him. "Give me a minute."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." Sam hid the first-aid kit inside his jacket, glancing at Natalie. He lowered his voice. "You can go down that alley. It goes to a parking lot."

She nodded, her lips twitching in a hollow smile before she darted away into the darkness. Sam watched her retreating figure. She ran like she wasn't even bleeding in the first place.

Zipping up his jacket, Sam hid his bloodstained hands in his pockets and joined Josie at the door.

\-- 

It had been a week since Natalie had come stumbling into the restaurant. Sam hadn't forgotten about her, but he pushed her to the back of his mind as he tidied up the counter at the end of his shift.

He flashed Josie a taut smile and thanked his manager when he gave him another wad of cash for the end of the week. Sam slipped it into his coat pocket, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. 

His breath billowed out in frosty clouds as he headed down the sidewalk in the direction of their apartment. He tried nestling into his jacket collar when the cold turned more biting, before he heard a noise in the nearby alley.

Sam froze, his hand immediately darting to the place by his hip where he kept his gun hidden. His heart turned into a loud drum as he looked around rapidly, taking in his surroundings. He didn't think he was being followed, but the noise had been too close to him.

He was close to making a run for it when a girl's voice said, "Hey. It's just me."

Sam frowned, his fingers still clasped tightly around his gun. "Natalie?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yeah." 

Natalie emerged from the alley. She looked way better than she did the last time Sam saw her. With her dark hair tied into a ponytail and her previously bloodstained sweater switched to a clean shirt and jacket, she looked almost normal. Her eyes were still shadowed and her lips chapped and grim, but there was a decidedly less intimidating gleam in her eyes when she stepped from the shadows.

"Were you just - waiting?" Sam asked incredulously, unsure of what else to do. 

"I wanted to thank you properly," Natalie said. "I probably would've died if it weren't for you."

"Oh. I just - it's fine," he stammered, his mind short-circuiting as Natalie approached him. She took something wrapped in black cloth from her pocket, shoving it into Sam's hands.

"So you can protect yourself." She curled Sam's fingers over the gift, squeezing them once before backing away. "I won't see you again."

"O-Okay." Sam's mouth went dry when he recognized the familiar weight and feel of the weapon in his hands. 

A knife.

No Wesninski _wouldn't_ recognize a blade if they were handed one.

Natalie nodded. "Goodbye, Sam."

"Bye." Sam's farewell trailed like wisps of blood from his mouth, because Natalie was already gone. He stared down at the knife in his hands, blinking numbly when he realized his fingers were shaking. The cloth had slipped, revealing a clean and polished blade underneath it. He could see his reflection in it, his dark eyes wide and terrified - and if he blinked too quickly he thought he could see auburn hair and a cruel smile.

Sam felt sick to his stomach, but he tucked the knife away in his pocket and ran the rest of the way back.

He barely remembered to knock before entering the apartment. Jane wasn't home yet, taking a double shift, so Sam had the entire room to himself to panic.

He practically kicked the door shut, gripping Natalie's knife so tightly his knuckles turned white as he leaned over, forcing himself to count to ten in all the languages he knew. Sam thought he might be sick - the weight of the knife was too familiar, and he cold hear Lola's voice in his ear, coiling like a cobra, hissing and giggling whenever he mishandled the blade.

"Wesninskis don't make mistakes, Junior," she'd hummed, before using her own knife to draw out Sam's - Nathaniel's - punishment. 

Sam took a shuddering breath, coughing with the strength of it. He pulled himself off the floor, practically fleeing to the kitchen and shoving the knife away behind a stack of unused plates. 

Natalie's voice briefly echoed in his ears, drowning out Lola's laughter. 

_"So you can protect yourself."_

He shut his eyes tightly, stumbling away and collapsing onto the couch. Natalie didn't know that Sam already knew 12 different ways to torture a man, all the places he could cut to draw out a death, and where a blade would hurt the most on the body. 

It wasn't her fault - but Sam never wanted to see or touch another knife again.

He remained on the couch, curled into himself until his panic finally subsided. There was a faint knocking on the door, in Jane's pattern, before the knob turned and his mother stepped into the living room.

She swept a calculating gaze over him. "Sam?"

"'M fine," he whispered.


	5. andrew doe and jacob mason, 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew gave jacob some insight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chap contains v vague references to rape, but it's not explicit at all
> 
> i listened to 'bring on the wonder' by susan enan on repeat the entire time while writing

Sending Jacob to school in some obscure Californian town was the best way for them to blend in - at least, that was what Helen said. 

They hadn't had any run-ins with Nathan's men in a while, but Jacob knew their fabricated safety was starting to wear down his mother. She constantly checked over her shoulder, one hand gripping Jacob's arm as if to yank him close to her in case bullets started flying and he needed a shield. It was a reaction ingrained into her, after one such encounter left Jacob - then Sam - with a bullet hole in his shoulder. 

She hadn't been fast enough.

He couldn't forget the heartrending pain that followed as his mother forced him to run with her, jumping into their car and speeding away and breaking almost every traffic rule in existence. They'd managed to get away from them, barely. Jacob could remember the blood spilling over his trembling hands, the labored breaths swirling in his lungs like snow storms as he forced himself to keep _breathing._

He didn't want to die. He wanted to survive, he wanted to keep living, he wanted to taste the smoky, dirty city air - and if the sticky warmth of his blood pooling against his hand was any indication of life, then so be it.

His mother had pulled over in the middle of nowhere, forcing him to drink the whiskey they'd stocked in their glove compartment. Sam had already been only half-conscious from the blood loss, but she forced the liquor down his throat. It burned sluggishly as she started to stitch him back up, her hands deft and sure as she worked to get the bullet out and close the wound.

Sam had been too out of it to register the pain of the needle threading him together, letting the bitter taste of whiskey dull the metallic odor of blood.

He didn't know how close he was to holding Death's hand, but maybe he felt its presence, lurking in the shadows of the night, waiting for his mother's hands to slip.

They didn't.

His mother, now Helen, escaped with him to California. They would stay until her contacts could get them new IDs for another city, a process that could take months. It had been three months without any trace of the Butcher, but that didn't stop Jacob's nightmares, nor did it stop his bullet scar from sometimes hurting. A phantom pain settled in his bones whenever he glanced in the mirror.

Helen knocked on the bathroom door, her voice filtering in from outside. "Jacob."

"I'm coming," he replied, tearing his gaze away from the glass. He didn't need to check his roots, but he did anyways.

The new school was quiet and small. Jacob refused to call anything 'his' anymore. Everything to him was temporary: an apartment, not a home; a reflection, not his own; a name, not his real one. Jacob was growing but accumulating lies instead, and it slipped by easier than French or English or anything else. The only thing Jacob was sure to always have was his mother - everything else would be ripped from him sooner or later.

Jacob's first class was math. He sat farthest back, hands twitchy as he gripped the handle of his bag. The teacher was a short mousy-haired woman with thin wire glasses. Jacob tried to focus on taking notes, but it was hard to pay attention to whatever his teacher - Mrs. Morris? - wrote on the board when every shift in a body jumped out at him like a gunshot. 

He ended up doodling random things onto his notes to pass the time, completely giving up on paying attention. He was in one of the lower-level math classes, either way. He just had to pass, a little over the bare minimum, and not draw attention to himself. 

It would be fine. As long as he remained at least ten steps ahead, he would be fine.

The bell rang, startling Jacob from his reverie. His heart pounded rapidly as he tucked away his pen, staring at his notes. Patterns danced up and down his paper, with the occasional Exy racquet making it in. Jacob felt sick when he saw the familiar shapes of the sticks, the tightness of his fingers crinkling the edges of the paper. 

A life was a dream that he'd never touch, a kite that flew too high, a balloon that escaped a child's fingertips. He could only survive now, and he intended to do that. 

A part of Jacob's mind whispered, _what's the point?_

He never asked for this. His mother said it herself, her words carving his chest up worse than Nathan's knives ever could. Because she spoke the truth, and the truth was that Jacob-Noah-Nathaniel-Abram - whoever he was - never wanted this and never would, but his life was now a cycle of never's and empty wishes. 

Jacob would just have to get used to it, just like he'd gotten used to the bullet in his shoulder and the whiskey burning his throat.

\-- 

It wasn't until lunch break that Jacob noticed the one boy who stood out.

He wasn't much. The boy was a ghost more than anything, a phantom with blank eyes and blank blond hair and blank skin. He wore a dark sweater that stretched past his knuckles, which wouldn't have been suspicious if it weren't for the Californian heat beating down on the campus.

Jacob had a knack for spotting people who could be potential threats to him. The ghostly boy didn't seem like much, not like anyone that could really harm Jacob like Nathan or his men could. Maybe it was the barren landscape that Jacob saw in his eyes, a look too numb to be seen on a twelve or thirteen year-old child. Maybe it was because the boy looked hollow, like a spirit that just wasn't quite right, something transient that left shadows behind Jacob's eyelids. He was eerie in the sense of the forest at night, the stars over the plains, and an empty parking lot fading into the mist. 

Whatever it was, it bothered Jacob, and he'd keep an eye on him.

The boy didn't notice Jacob's stare - or at least, if he did, he didn't seem to care. He sat by the bleachers away from the ruckus of the heart of campus, staring off into space while holding a stick between his fingers. Jacob usually stayed by the field too, partially to avoid the crowds, and partially to watch the Exy players practice with borrowed racquets and bright red pennies. 

The bell rung again, and Jacob retreated to his next class with bitterness in his mouth. When he looked over his shoulder, the boy was still on the bleachers, unmoving as a statue.

Jacob didn't catch another glimpse of the boy until his last class of the day, English. Again, he sat down close to the back, bag tucked underneath his desk as he waited for the teacher to begin class. 

As the rest of the students filtered in and eventually settled down, the teacher cleared his throat and turned around, clipboard in his arm.

"Good afternoon, kiddos."

The rest of the students echoed the greeting. The man, Mr. Sapers according to Jacob's schedule, looked around the class, until his eyes eventually found Jacob. 

"First order of business!" he said cheerily. "We have a new student!"

Jacob felt his heart freeze over as soon as the words left Mr. Sapers's mouth. His legs vibrated with the sudden urge to run, to hide, to slip away and disappear into the shadows like Helen had taught him. This was too much attention, too much time spent staring at Jacob's supposedly unrecognizable face. Mr. Sapers's friendly brown eyes suddenly shifted into blue for a split second, until they flickered back to normal. 

Jacob blinked, his mouth dry. 

Mr. Sapers was saying, " - introduce yourself, Jacob? Tell us one thing about yourself."

_I am not me. I am a ghost and a fabrication and a lie in the shape of a boy._

"Hi," Jacob said, his voice somewhat steady as he plastered on a smile. He recited the backstory Helen had drilled into his head perfectly. "I'm Jacob, and I recently moved from Montague. I like to go running in my free time."

Mr. Sapers grinned, nodding. "Welcome Jacob, everybody. Like I was saying, we're getting ready to read our series of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, which I mentioned the week before. Everybody make sure you have your textbooks by Wednesday, okay?" He turned around to the board and started scribbling something down: a grammar lesson. "Get out your notes, kiddos."

Jacob was never more relieved to have to take notes in his entire life. As he leaned down to grab his notebook, he hesitated when he thought he felt someone watching him. 

His paranoid mind immediately supplied the _Butcher._ But common sense told Jacob that he'd have noticed immediately if there was someone out to get him in this classroom, and it definitely couldn't be Mr. Sapers, because he taught here for years already according to the yearbooks Jacob had found at the library. 

Jacob glanced over, his knuckles whitening against his notebook, and found himself staring right at the ghost boy.

His eyes were startlingly hazel.

Then the boy was looking away like nothing had ever happened, and Jacob was left transparent and wary.

Mr. Sapers went on and on about grammar, until he finally switched over to themes. Jacob barely refrained from obnoxiously clicking on his pen over and over again during the lesson. 

As soon as the last bell rang, he was out of his seat and heading for the door.

Helen had purposely rented an apartment not too far from the school. It was barely half a mile away, which was nothing for Jacob. He ran the rest of the way back, and any lingering thought of the ghost boy at school disappeared to the back of his mind.

\-- 

_The Telltale Heart_ was supposedly a scary tale, but it didn't scare Jacob. The crazed narrator paled in comparison to Jacob's father, the very man he was running away from. He'd seen and endured far worse than what the old man had - yes, death sometimes did seem preferable to the not-life that Jacob led. 

Maybe the scene where the narrator cut the old man into pieces to bury did bother Jacob, though. He'd subtly turned to a different page during the in-class reading, focusing on the wooden patterns of his desk and not the memories of a man's shrill screaming and blood flooding tarp back in Castle Evermore. He struggled not to succumb to memories from his patchwork childhood, in which Nathan had forced him to watch as he took apart a man while forcing babbling pleas from his mouth. He'd dug his fingers into his thigh and tuned out Mr. Sapers's voice reading the scene, stilling his chest so that he didn't start hyperventilating. 

But no, the story wasn't scary. Not when there were real things for Jacob to be afraid of.

Mr. Sapers finished the reading and went about talking over a few ways to analyze the story. Jacob slowly let himself tune back in, letting out a shaky breath and unclenching his aching fingers.

"Andrew, do you have any examples of symbolism that Poe used throughout his story? Perhaps to illustrate the dangers of paranoia?" 

He'd called on the ghost boy.

Andrew just stared back at Mr. Sapers and eventually lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. Mr. Sapers nodded, his cheer dampened slightly, but he still accepted Andrew's silence and moved on to call on someone else. 

Jacob tore his gaze away from the boy.

Andrew. It was an innocent name, one that didn't fit such a ghostly boy - but then again, Jacob wasn't even a real boy in the first place.

He turned back to his book, staring at the words until they threatened to float off the page. 

That night, Helen was more scared than usual. Jacob asked her softly what was wrong, but she kept staring out the window at the empty streets. 

"M-Mom?" he asked hesitantly. Saying that felt so wrong. He never called her "Mom." It was just as foreign of a word as "Dad" or "love" or "I'm okay" were to him, but he could make out the barely there trembles that were wracking Helen's frame, and he could definitely see the outline of a gun grasped in her hands. That was familiar. Morbidly, that was what felt right: constant danger, balancing on a tightrope with gales threatening to blow him off his feet.

Helen blinked, as if roused from a dream. She glanced at Jacob, reaching out and beckoning him close. Jacob stepped closer to her, and she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him close. Her touch was slightly hurtful, sending tears springing to his eyes, but he wisely remained silent, letting his cheek brush against her quivering shoulder. 

"I thought I saw someone," Helen finally said after fifteen minutes of silence. "They looked too familiar." 

"Were they?" Jacob asked, his breath freezing in his lungs. He and Helen were always ready to leave in any moment; it didn't matter that their new IDs were not ready yet. If they had to run, they would run. Their lives were causes-and-effects: everywhere he went, Nathan caused destruction, and Jacob and Helen were the effects that followed.

She let out a shuddering breath, tapping the barrel of her gun against her thigh. “No. We’re still fine.”

But they weren't. Nothing was, really. To Helen and Jacob, fine meant breathing. Fine meant not dead. Fine meant still remaining ten steps ahead, regardless of how bloodied they were.

Jacob closed his eyes briefly, inhaling his mother’s scent. It had disappeared over the years, taken over by the scent of gasoline and nothingness; but sometimes he could still smell it. Freshly washed cotton and the ocean-dented shampoo they sometimes bought at convenience stories. 

For once, Helen’s hands loosened in his hair. She let him lean against her for a moment longer, until her shaking started to subside, before lightly pushing him off and muttering about taking a shower. Jacob settled down on the couch, keeping an eye on the streets outside the window as the bathroom door shut, and the shower turned on.

\-- 

Jacob saw Andrew again by the bleachers. He stood close by the track, watching the soccer kids kick a ball back and forth while the Exy kids passed balls back and forth. Wistfulness threatened to knock Jacob off his feet, but he knew better. Helen had taught him better.

Exy may have given him freedom, but so did Icarus's wax wings. 

He turned his gaze toward Andrew, who shifted to his other side and rested his hands on his kneecaps. Then Andrew paused, like he'd just been shocked, before turning and meeting Jacob's eyes.

He looked away as quickly as he could, but he knew it was useless. Jacob heard light footsteps descending the bleachers, padding across the dirt track, before stopping right beside him.

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

Jacob pursed his lips, searching for an excuse. He glanced back at Andrew, any words he had to say being punched out of him when he noticed the purple bruise darkening Andrew's left eye, and then another one just barely hidden by the high collar of his sweater. Jacob had his own fair share of injuries; he knew a deliberate one when he saw it. 

Nothing about this was accidental. 

Andrew cleared his throat, his eyebrows twitching. "Hello. I asked you a question, Jacob."

"You know my name," Jacob said dumbly. 

"I wanna know why you keep staring at me," Andrew said, and Jacob could immediately detect the defensiveness in his voice. "Stop looking at me. It's annoying."

Jacob said weakly, "I'm sorry."

Andrew looked him up and down again, before reaching out and shoving Jacob away for good measure. "Leave me alone."

He was left, stunned, as Andrew stalked away. Indeed, Andrew wasn’t a ghost, but a boy. A very real one.

\-- 

Jacob asked Helen one night, “How long until we get IDs?”

She’d looked back at him, and the light caught on her face just right to show the small scar above her eyebrow. “I haven’t heard.”

Jacob sank lower into his chair, gazing at the gun resting in Helen’s lap. She leaned closer, tapping her fingers lightly against the table. “You keep going, Abram.”

Keep going. Her eyes were darker than usual, but they weren’t from shadows.

He went to school the next day and didn’t spare a single glance at Andrew or anyone else.

Once they finished _The Telltale Heart,_ Mr. Sapers began having students pair up to work on a text-analysis project. Jacob was left without a partner, unwilling to reach out to anyone. Mr. Sapers cast him a sad smile, before pointing at Andrew, who was also alone.

“We have an even number of kids, so we can’t have groups of three,” he told Jacob. “This project will only be a week long. You’ll be fine.”

As long as it was over in a week. There was no telling how long Jacob would stay in California, but he still couldn't afford to start making connections with others now. He crossed the classroom to sit by Andrew’s side. He didn't pay Jacob any attention as he pulled out the chair next to him.

When Mr. Sapers went back to the center of the classroom to explain the project, Jacob dared to sneak a glance at Andrew. Nothing was there. Not a twitch, not a blink.

It would have been hurtful if it wasn't what Jacob was aiming for: to be forgettable, unnoticeable. Unworthy of attention.

Mr. Sapers gave them time to work together for the rest of class, retreating to his desk to grade essays. Jacob fiddled with his notebook, folding a corner of the rubric over and over again until it creased. Andrew still wasn't saying anything, fixated on the blankness of the wall in front of him.

The minutes ticked by, and Jacob noticed the multiple glances Mr. Sapers sent their way. Helen had taught him well, to notice even the slightest movements in someone else's body. It could mean life or death for him.

He turned to Andrew and cleared his throat. "Can we at least pretend we're working so he doesn't get suspicious?" he asked quietly. Andrew glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The bruise there had healed, leaving behind pale and milky skin. 

"I don't care," he said, enunciating each syllable like he was afraid Jacob wouldn't understand. "This is a waste of time."

"Well, I don't want a zero," Jacob replied, fingers tightening on his book. He needed to maintain his grades so no one would get suspicious of him. His academics had always been decent, so any sudden drop in it would probably raise red flags. 

"Should have picked someone else."

"I didn't pick you, he put us together," Jacob retorted indignantly. Andrew raised his eyebrow. 

"Not my fault you have no friends."

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, or maybe throw his book at Andrew's head. Jacob forced himself to count to ten in both French and English, before exhaling softly. A glance at the clock told him there were only six minutes left before school was over. 

"Fine," he said after a short silence. "I'll do all the work."

Andrew didn't say anything, and just went back to staring at the wall.

\-- 

Jacob stayed over at the library after school the next day after texting Helen. He used the computer to work on the project, hoping to get it over and done with so he could focus on other things. He was halfway through drafting the paper when he heard the chair next to him scrape against the floor, and someone slammed a stack of books down next to him.

He nearly grabbed the pocket knife that he kept hidden in his pocket, only to relax when he caught sigh of Andrew's emotionless face.

"Hi?" The greeting came out as a question as Jacob tried to mask his trembling fear. It bothered him that he hadn't noticed Andrew's presence. It was unlikely that any of Nathan's people would try and target him in a public place like the library, but it wasn't completely impossible.

Andrew sat down slowly, his lips flattening into a thin line as he did. "What are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Writing the paper. Why are you here?"

"We're supposed to work together," Andrew said.

Jacob couldn't help but retort, "Now you decide to be helpful?"

"You're probably a shitty writer," was all Andrew said in return. Jacob bit his lip and forced himself to count to ten, to not give into his irritation. Then he turned the computer screen toward Andrew to let him read the paper.

Andrew skimmed through it quickly, his lips and fingers twitching. A few minutes later, he leaned back, freezing slightly as if he was in pain. Then his face smoothed out into its usual blankness.

"The narrator doesn't hallucinate the heartbeat," Andrew said. "It was his own that he was hearing."

"Oh." Jacob tapped his fingers against the mouse. "How do you know?"

"He killed the old man." Andrew pointed to a spot on the screen. "He was so paranoid that he thought his own heartbeat was the one of the man. He would've gotten away with the murder, but his own paranoia led to his downfall."

But paranoia was also what kept people like Jacob alive.

He pursed his lips, resting his free hand on his knee. "I think it was the narrator's insanity that brought him down, not just his paranoia."

"The narrator said that he wasn't insane."

"He was unreliable."

Andrew raised his eyebrows, tugging at his sleeves. "So? No one is."

Trust was something that Jacob rationed very carefully. The only person he could completely trust was his mother, despite the multiple beatings she'd given to him for quite insignificant mistakes: looking at a girl for too long, fidgeting a bit too much in public, forgetting a verb conjugation. But his mother stole him and ran when her life was on the line too, and there was no way Jacob would not rely on her. 

He had only one person to lean on, to support the weight of his life, and that was his mother. 

"I don't think so," he said quietly. Andrew looked at him for a moment longer, before shrugging. 

"Whatever."

Jacob bit his lip. His throat suddenly felt uncomfortably dry. "I'll put paranoia as a reason for his downfall, though."

"Okay." Andrew glanced at the clock on the far end of the library, and his face twitched slightly as he read the time. "Are you staying here?"

Jacob glanced up from where he was typing. "What?"

"Are you staying here?"

He glanced at the time on the computer. Helen had told him to be home by four, and it was three-twenty right now. 

"Probably not," he replied. "Are you?"

"I have nothing better to do," Andrew said. He fidgeted slightly, toying with his sleeves again as his lips twitched in a silent wince. Jacob eyed him carefully, his fingers frozen on the keyboard. 

He wondered if he should ask Andrew if he was okay. But experience was always the best teacher, and experience taught him this: questions were useless because they changed nothing. "Are you okay?" didn't change the fact that Jacob was not okay, even though he was; it didn't change his nightmares into something prettier or his bruises back into clear skin. 

If Andrew was hurting, then there was no point in prodding him with pointless questions.

Jacob kept silent, resuming his work. Andrew stared at him for a few more minutes, before opening one of his books and starting to read.

It was surprisingly relaxing, being in a half-full library after school with a silent boy at his side. Jacob felt less need to keep looking over his shoulder, to scan his surroundings, as he focused on finishing their stupid paper and the soft sound of Andrew flipping pages beside him. 

For a fleeting moment, Jacob thought Andrew was interesting. He was both a ghost and a boy, a silent spectator. But he knew there was something more beneath Andrew's blank expression and those strange bruises that often littered his skin. 

Jacob thought that if things were different, if he could actually live - not survive - maybe he would have wanted to be Andrew's friend.

(He _did_ want to; it was an itch to be known, a desire to be remembered by _someone._ It was the hope that in finding a friend in Andrew, Jacob wouldn't die a nameless star that no one bothered to mourn).

But that wasn't his life now, and it never would be.

Another cycle of never's. 

In a parallel universe, perhaps. Jacob didn't know if he believed they existed.

He finished the paper with ten minutes to spare and passed it along to Andrew to edit. Andrew finished after five minutes, nodding silently and letting Jacob print it. He handed it to Andrew to keep.

"I probably should go now," Jacob said, unsure of what else to do. Andrew slowly closed his book and tucked their paper into his backpack.

"Okay."

"I'll - bye," Jacob said hastily. _See you tomorrow_ wasn't a guarantee, not for Jacob.

Andrew gazed at him, before replying, "See you."

Jacob slung his bag over his shoulder, making sure that all his windows were closed on the computer before turning it off. He was halfway out of his seat when he paused and thought to look back at Andrew. He'd resumed reading his book, his pale hair falling in front of his face.

"Thank you," Jacob suddenly said. He didn't know what he was thanking Andrew for, but maybe Andrew would find meaning to it all the same. 

The boy blinked at Jacob, his eyes suddenly more present than before. Then the intent behind them faded back into a cool, blank stare.

Andrew didn't reply; Jacob didn't expect him to. He left the library on quick feet, clutching his bag tighter than before and wondering why his feet pounding against the pavement sounded so much like his heartbeat.

\-- 

Jacob never did see Andrew much afterwards. It was at least another week before Helen finally showed Jacob their new contacts.

"We're leaving tomorrow. We've stayed too long. I've talked to the administration already. They know your father is supposedly in the military, so sudden moves are normal for us," she said quietly, shoving the ID into Jacob's hands before heading into the kitchen to get a drink. Jacob stared blankly at his new identity. 

He tried to put meaning to the name. He came up short.

Jacob didn't go to sleep that night. He stared out the window from the edge of the bed, gazing at the stars. 

He didn't feel particularly attached to any of his identities. If you stripped them all away, you'd be left with a no-name child: Abram. So Jacob didn't understand why he felt so desolate right then.

He thought back to Andrew's shadowed hazel irises, the way he lowered himself carefully onto the chair like it pained him to even sit. Their paths were perpendicular: meant to intersect at a point in a way that bothered Jacob more than it should have, meant to never intertwine again.

He let himself grieve for thirty seconds. For another persona scrapped, for another friendship lost before it could be discovered, for this nameless life that he'd been sentenced to from the moment he was born.

Then Jacob shut his eyes and reached underneath his pillow for the familiar weight of his gun. 

Tomorrow he'd leave, and he wouldn't return again. But he'd never expected to have trouble doing so.

The bed sank slightly when Helen sat down. She paused slightly, and Jacob forced his breathing to slow.

Then a hand was combing through his curls, and his mother's soft voice rasped through the empty room.

"You keep going, Abram."


	6. danielle wilds and evan abbott, 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> danielle gave evan a way to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: description of violence at the end of the chapter

Evan blamed the subway.

He didn't mean to get sick (he _never_ meant to do anything that might slow them down) but the fever was a hammer inside of his skull, and the shivers wracking his body disrupted his normally smooth movements. 

Sarah wasn't back yet, but she'd sent him a text fifteen minutes ago saying she'd be back in twenty. Evan forced himself up from the couch, coughing sharply into the crook of his arm while stumbling into the crammed kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and forced it down despite the churning in his stomach, tossing it into the sink and hunching over the counter. The deep breaths he took almost cracked him in half, but they were the best he could do to fight the nausea.

Evan went to the bathroom next and rummaged through the cabinets. They always had a few bottles of painkillers on standby for emergencies, like gun or stab wounds, not for damn headaches. 

He eventually found what he was looking for in the bottom drawer. He pulled out the small first-aid kit that came with the rental apartment and grabbed the thermometer. Sticking it into his mouth, Evan leaned against the cold sink and closed his eyes.

A high-pitched beep emitted from the thermometer several moments later. Evan leaned back and took it from his mouth. He groaned softly at the reading: 102.2. 

Evan tucked the thermometer away after washing it and sat back down on the couch. He really didn't have a choice but to wait it out, to pray that it wasn't anything worse than a cold or minor bug. The fever eventually grew into a monster, raging in his head and pounding at his temples. He slumped back and crossed his arms over his churning stomach, breathing shakily.

Three knocks sounded at the door. Evan pried his eyes open in time to see Sarah entering, her hair damp from the drizzle outside.

Her eyes sharpened when she spotted his prone form on the couch.

"Evan." She crossed the room to him quickly, her eyes roaming his body and cataloging any possible injuries he could have. Evan opened his mouth to say something, but a hacking cough interrupted him.

"Fuck," Sarah cursed as she pressed a hand to his forehead. "What did you do?"

"I didn't - "

She shushed him, shrugging off her coat and draping it across his shoulders. "How bad?"

"102.2," Evan said groggily, barely registering the warmth of his mother's jacket. "Headache, nausea, cough."

Sarah swore again under her breath, but she left him alone. Evan let out a short sigh as she left for the kitchen. A few minutes later, a cold bottle of water was being shoved into his shaky hands.

"Drink the whole thing," she ordered roughly. "Is it just a cold?"

"I don't know," Evan rasped once he'd drank at least half of the bottle. "I think the man who sold us tickets for the subway might have been sick." He broke off to fall into another coughing fit.

His mother's eyes flashed, but she didn't do anything else. She left and Evan could hear the water running, before she settled back down at the table and started to clean her gun. Sarah always cleaned her gun whenever she didn't have anything else to do. Evan thought it was becoming one of her tics, having the cold metal of her pistol pressed against her rough palms as she stared out the window.

He eventually retreated to the bathroom to take a shower. Steam rose around his body, staining the glass and wrapping gentle arms around his pounding head. The hot water helped a little, relaxing his muscles and the aches in his body. 

Evan was careful not to take too long. He stepped out, immediately shivering when the cold air hit his bare skin, and dressed as quickly as his heavy body would let him. He padded into their shared bedroom, crawling in bed and shakily exhaling, wrapping the blanket around himself. 

His mother would never forgive him if his fever was what got them caught. Evan knew this with a sinking dread as he sank into a restless sleep.

\-- 

Morning found Evan with a pounding headache and worsened nausea. He bolted out of bed and ran into the bathroom as quickly as he could, hunching over the toilet as painful dry heaves wracked his body. He'd skipped dinner so there was nothing in his stomach, but his brain didn't catch on.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Evan gasped for breath, and a hand pressed against the back of his neck firmly.

"How bad?"

"I-I can handle it," Evan managed, coughing harshly as he fought off another gag. Sarah gazed at him with narrowed eyes.

"You're still going to work today," she said lowly, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "I'll pick you up when I get off my shift, and we'll go to the pharmacy if it's not better by then."

He could barely nod without exasperating his headache, but Sarah accepted the tiny movement anyways. She hauled him to his feet and forced him to wash out his mouth, before heading into the bedroom to change for work.

Evan avoided looking at himself in the mirror, rinsing out his mouth and shutting his eyes tightly. He thought he was breaking apart, floating away in a feverish wind, and the only thing pinning him to the ground was his mother's harshness and the cold sink.

He didn't take any painkillers, just washing his face with icy water and grabbing his jacket and uniform.

Only ten minutes into his shift, Evan could already tell that he probably wouldn't be able to make it. He messed up his numbers and customers' orders, he was unsteady on his feet, and he could barely refrain from descending into coughing fits every few minutes.

Ray was on shift with him, and he kept glancing over at Evan as he struggled to stay awake.

"Hey," he muttered once a disgruntled old man left the counter to pick up his order. "You look like shit. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Evan said curtly. 

"I think you're scaring the customers off." Ray reached out and took Evan's arm. Through the sick haze clogging Evan's mind, he couldn't quite suppress the flinch that ran through his body.

Ray dropped his hand, though his eyes were wide and brows furrowed. "Come on, Evan. I'll take you to Wade. You need a break."

Another weak protest made its way to Evan's tongue, before it was shoved aside by a series of painful coughs. Ray clucked his tongue in concern, this time gently grabbing Evan's hand and leading him into the back room.

Their manager, Wade, was sitting in the lounge along with Jayce, Rhett, Erica, and Sophie. He looked up as soon as Ray walked in with Evan.

"What's up?" 

"Evan's sick and he won't admit it." Ray pushed Evan onto the couch as Sophie touched his forehead with the back of her hand and promptly hissed. 

"Damn, that's a fever if I've ever felt one," she remarked. "Why are you even here?"

"I'm fine," Evan said again. Wade made his way over to him, his face twisted in a weird cocktail of concern and tiredness. 

"Do you need me to send you home?" he asked. Evan froze, nearly dropping the water bottle that Jayce had handed him. For a moment, he heard his mother's voice, cold and harsh in his ear as she slapped his cheek over and over again. 

_You have no time for weakness, no time to hurt. You're slowing us down. You're slowing us down, you're slowing us -_

"Kid." Wade was now crouched in front of Evan, lips twisted into a frown. "Do I need to call someone?"

"N-No," Evan said, starting. He blinked as his vision wavered. "I can do the rest of the shift. I just - I just need five minutes."

"As long as you think you can function," Wade said lowly. "That doesn't mean I don't think you should go home, but if you insist. Ray, take Jayce with you. Is Dominic still out there?"

"Yeah," Ray replied as Jayce stood up and donned his cap. "Feel better, Evan."

"Take a nap or something," Erica suggested, casting him a brief glance before returning to texting someone on her phone. Wade echoed agreement, settling back down on the couch and continuing his calls.

Evan knew there was no way he'd fall asleep with a grown man in the same room, but he shut his eyes and tried anyways.

\-- 

After barely making it through his shift, Evan left the building to find his mother waiting for him by the curb. Displeasure twisted her features when she saw him, but she took his arm and dragged him off without a word.

The pharmacy was at least a few miles from where Evan worked, but it was closer to their apartment. Sarah dragged Evan along, her bone-shattering grip on his wrist overpowering the headache pounding beneath his skull. She hissed quietly at him to keep up, yanking him slightly when Evan started to stumble.

"Straighten up," she commanded through gritted teeth, and Evan forced himself to stop slumping over even though his entire body protested from the movement. She jerked his wrist roughly, sending a brief jolt of pain up his arm. "You're being too obvious." 

Evan blinked rapidly, desperately wishing his vision would settle and stop swimming. He took several deep breaths, quickening his pace to keep up with his mother.

They were halfway there when Sarah's grip suddenly tightened even more, and Evan nearly flinched. She dragged him close to her side until he was pressed up against her.

"Someone's following us," she whispered. 

Evan tensed, briefly forgetting about his headache. He risked a glance behind him as Sarah subtly started walking faster. There was a man walking a ways behind them, his face shielded by a gray beanie and frame covered by a thick leather jacket. 

"How long?" Evan asked quietly.

"Five blocks and across two intersections," Sarah replied, her grip becoming bruising. "We have to detour."

Evan bit his lip, but waited for his mother's call. She glanced around rapidly, taking in their surroundings, before nudging him forward. "Go through the alley on your farthest right. Cut through the parking lot. There will be a club in front of you, and go through the back entrance. Mingle for maybe ten minutes, then leave through the next exit you find. Run to our apartment as fast as you can. I will meet you there." 

"What are you going to - "

"Stop asking questions!" Sarah hissed. "Go. _Now._ "

Evan followed her directions, breaking away from her. He quickened his pace until he made a sharp turn around the corner through the alley his mother had pointed out. It was long and winding, just narrow enough that he could squeeze through. His heart pounded the entire time, a sickening beat like a soldier's drums as he made his way in between the two buildings. Giving into his panic would lead to certain death, though, so Evan forced himself to count to twenty in all the languages he knew as he pushed on.

He eventually found himself in a half-filled parking lot. Evan broke into a run despite how his head protested, weaving in between the empty cars until he found the club he was looking for.

Heavy music bled through the graffiti walls as Evan scanned for a back entrance. He found it after a few seconds, carefully peeling the door open and slipping in. 

The music became infinitely louder, as did the heat. Sweat, perfume, and the aroma of bar drinks permeated the air, only worsening Evan's headache. He ignored it, keeping close to the walls where there were less people. 

The flashing lights and general darkness made it easy for Evan to blend in. He felt his way along the wall, narrowly avoiding moving elbows and dancing bodies as he slowly made a circle around the club.

A loud, overly enthusiastic voice boomed through the speakers. 

"Everyone, welcome Hennessy to the stage!"

Evan paused just briefly enough to see a girl who looked only a few years older than him saunter onto the raised platform. Neon lights turned her dark skin, glistening with sweat, to magenta. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, sweeping along toned shoulders that were just barely covered with a skimpy outfit. Everything about her was fierce, from the heels strapped to her feet to her chipped black nails to the way she tilted her chin in response to the whistles that men sent her way.

In his moment of distraction, Evan nearly crashed into a tall girl. She hissed at him to watch it, but left him alone. His breathing quickened, and Evan grabbed the wall for support. 

His lungs tickled painfully, and he leaned over to cough into his elbow. As soon as he finished, he weakly straightened up and pushed himself away from the wall, merging with the shifting crowd.

The girl, Hennessy, was dancing and twirling on the stage. Evan dodged a few of the dollar bills that were thrown her way, pushing through the crowd as quickly as he could, fighting a sea of monsters as he killed time. 

Hennessy had left the stage and was replaced by another girl named Destiny by the time Evan's ten minutes were up. He finally managed to fight his way through the writhing audience, looking around for the signature neon green exit sign. He followed the wall down an empty corridor, his breathing quickening when he couldn't find any door.

In his haste to turn around, he nearly crashed into another girl. Evan blinked, startled, as he pressed himself against the wall. She was the same dancer who was just on stage. 

"You're not supposed to be here," Hennessy said, looking him over. She was dressed in a loose sweater and shorts now, her hair wild and loose, tumbling over her shoulders. 

"S-Sorry. I went the wrong way," Evan muttered. He turned to leave, but the girl grabbed him by the arm.

"Emergency exit's backstage," she said. "The alarm was broken months ago, but boss never fixed it. I'm assuming that's what you're looking for."

Evan inhaled shakily, nodding rapidly. Hennessy gave him a scrutinizing look, before turning and leading him back.

"Girls, he's just passing through," she called out as a few of them looked over curiously. She pushed him toward a door, then lowered her voice. "Stay out of this place, kid."

"Thank you," Evan stammered.

"You're welcome." Hennessy turned around without a second glance, tucking something into the waistband of her shorts that Evan assumed was cash.

Focusing on the task at hand, he silently slipped out into the alley. The night air was a welcome relief to the stink and sweat of the club. Evan shivered as it curled around him. 

He only stopped to dart a quick glance to his right and left, before running without a single look back. Then he sprinted down the alleys and sidewalks, shoving a hand into his pocket when he felt his phone buzz.

A text from his mother. 

_Breathing._

He sighed sharply, diving into another alleyway. He finally found the apartment complex, taking the stairs up instead of the elevator and bursting through the door to their place.

Sarah wasn't there. 

Evan nearly collapsed onto the couch, coughing and wheezing like his life depended on it. He nearly choked trying to inhale air, falling against the cushions like a paper weight.

His mother returned home after another twenty minutes. Evan's eyes fell to the faint but still noticeable blood splatters staining her gray sweater, and his stomach twisted.

Sarah stormed toward him, yanking him by the hair and slapping him harshly. Evan fell against the couch again, unable to resist when his mother grabbed his collar and slapped him again.

" _Never_ let this happen again," she snarled, shaking him furiously. "You slowed us down."

"I'm sorry - " Evan choked out, only to be silenced when Sarah growled and punched him. Blood trickled into his mouth.

"Sickness is not an excuse to slow down," she snapped, barely able to stop herself from shouting. "You should fucking know this!"

Evan braced himself for another beating, but Sarah just glared at him, breathing heavily, and stepped back.

"We can't stay. We're leaving tomorrow," she said lowly. She touched a hand to the bloodstains on her sweater, before whirling around and heading to the bathroom.

The door slammed shut, a gunshot tearing through Evan.

Heavy tremors wracked his body as he sank down. He wiped the blood from his split lip and nose, shaking violently.

He wondered what his mother did to the man. If she shot him and forced the answers out of his bloodied crimson lips. 

If she even gave him time to blink.


	7. aaron minyard and alex field, 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaron gave alex false hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: descriptions of violence and abuse

Alex Field's birthday was on December 20th. But Nathaniel Wesninski's birthday was January 19th, and that was today. 

He woke up in a cold sweat, with Lola's voice echoing in his ears. _Happy birthday, Junior. Would you like to cut the cake?_ His jagged breaths caught in his throat as he pressed the backs of his hands to his eyes hard enough to see stars. Lola's wide eyes and manic grin were seared into his memory. Her giggles echoed through the dark room of Alex's mind, running cold nails down his spine as he jolted out of bed.

Today was his last day of being Alex Field. They were supposed to be getting new IDs today, but his mother hadn't prepared any money. Alex dreaded what their method of payment would be, but it wasn't his biggest concern just yet, especially not when he jumped at his own shadows and felt his father's presence stifling the entire room.

He left the bedroom and sat in front of the window, drawing his knees up to his chest. The home they were squatting at didn't have any working heat, so his breath crystallized in the winter morning. Alex shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, squeezing hard as if he could press his scars back beneath his skin.

Birthdays were never good days. He never got presents, only new scars and the knowledge that he'd survived another year. They were merely countdowns to the day Alex wouldn't make it to his next landmark.

He didn't know how long he sat there, trembling and staring into space, but he was jerked from his reverie by footsteps and his mother's harsh voice.

"Alex, snap out of it. Today isn't your birthday and it never will be again. Alex!" A hand grabbed his wrist and yanked. Fiery pain raced up Alex's arm, and he barely bit back the yelp that nearly escaped. _Take it with silence,_ Lola's voice said. _That's it, Junior. Loud boys get punished worse._

"Look at me." Irene shook him roughly, sending another wave of pain through Alex's body. His bruises from his last beating still hadn't healed, and Irene knew that. Anger gripped her body with iron hands as he finally looked up at her face.

"I-I'm sorry," he started, but Irene squeezed his injured wrist harder. A pained gasp escaped him before he could stop it.

"Apologies are worthless," she spat. "Excuses are nothing. You take the pain and you run with it. Today is not your birthday, and as long as I'm alive, it never will be. Get back in your head. We have a favor to carry out today and I won't delay." 

She dropped his wrist and stalked off. Alex cradled his arm to his chest, biting his lip harshly as he inspected it. It wasn't dislocated, thankfully, but it was tender and starting to swell slightly. Irene had just sprained it.

He dug through his duffel and pulled out the elastic bandages, wrapping them carefully around his wrist before tying it off. They didn't have ice, so compression was the best Alex could do.

He was used to the pain by now. In a way, he almost welcomed it. Pain meant he was feeling; pain meant he was still human. He wasn't his father, not yet, not when he still knew how to hurt. 

Irene never called him Abram when she was beating a lesson into him. That name was sacred; it was to be left unsoiled. Abram was supposed to be safe from blood splatter, knives, and blazing guns. Abram was supposed to be okay. Abram was supposed to be his peace.

It was a small bit of mercy his mother lent him in an otherwise merciless life, and Alex would take anything he got. He didn't know if he should love her or hate her for it.

It was Nathaniel Wesninski's birthday, but as far as Irene was concerned, Nathaniel was dead. He'd been killed by his father a long time ago, leaving in his place a ghost boy and paper-mache body. 

This was a pain Alex would ignore - not because it made him human, but because it would kill him.

He left the bathroom, holding his wrist, and found his mother in the kitchen. She had dressed in a dark jacket that was just bulky enough to disguise the shape of a gun. She wore dark jeans of a slightly lighter shade, but Alex knew that those were always easily movable in.

"Get dressed, Alex," she said without looking back.

"This favor," Alex said tentatively, taking a step back in case his mother decided to take a swing at him. "What is it?"

"Dallas Beltran asked me to do him a favor," his mother replied after a short pause. "We kill his client Carl McKenzie."

"Why?"

Irene turned around, zipping up her jacket. "All you need to know is that Beltran will get us new IDs," she said while strapping on a pair of gloves. "All we have to do is kill McKenzie."

"What about the body?" Alex asked, his body stiffening with dread. He'd learned by now how to cover his tracks and hide a dead body, but it was still a process he was _never_ keen on repeating.

Irene shook her head. "We shoot him, I dispose of the gun. It doesn't have my name on it because I bought it on the streets. Go get ready now."

Obediently, Alex went back into the bedroom. He slipped into more comfortably jeans that he could run in, the cloth fraying near his knees and at the hems. Then he slipped into his jacket, slipping his own gun into the inner pockets where he'd be able to reach it easily. The sleeves covered the bandages around his wrist easily. 

He paused on his way out, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He'd recently gotten his hair buzz cut, and he could barely recognize himself without the curls brushing across his forehead. His irises were now brown again, a faint bruise blemishing his cheekbone where Irene's fist had caught him a week ago.

He tentatively pressed a hand against his ribcage. Irene had beaten him for looking at the girl at their bus stop for too long, her shoes slamming into his sides and ribs as she snarled aborted reprimands at him.

 _"Love is dangerous. Love will get you_ killed."

Alex knew his mother was speaking from experience. She'd married Nathan Wesninski.

But he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hatred kindle within his bruised and battered ribcage when he thought of his mother as well. Sometimes he thought his life didn't improve by even the slightest margin after running away from Nathan. He'd run from one monster into the hands of another one - but at the same time, his parents were worlds different. 

Because Irene kept him safe, kept him alive. If she ever broke him, it was because he made a fatal mistake. Nathan was hellbent on shattering Alex ever since he was born, on taking Abram and breaking him in half over his knee, on cutting the bits of innocence out of Nathaniel until he could become his father's shadow. 

His mother would sacrifice her life to keep Alex alive, he knew that. But she wanted to survive too - she needed it as much as he did. She needed to defy the gravity pushing her down, she needed to breathe out of spite and denial and rebellion. So if that meant beating Alex so he didn't make the same mistake again to endanger them, then she would do it.

He deserved the bruises anyways.

It was the Circle Theory. The closer he got to loving someone, the closer he got to hating them. 

"Alex." His mother called him from the doorway, and he pinched himself slightly. 

"Coming."

\-- 

Alex could sense his mother's nerves as they stopped by the intersection. Beltran had given them the address of where they'd be able to find McKenzie, and then another address where they could find Beltran once they did the favor. Irene never usually opted for carrying out favors in exchange for fresh IDs - people couldn't be trusted to hold up their end of the bargain - but they couldn't find any other option. The IDs were getting too expensive, and they couldn't afford to get new ones along with passports at the same time.

"Hurry," Irene hissed to him once the light turned white for them to walk. She grabbed Alex's left hand, her fingers closing over his sprained wrist, and he bit back a wince and quickened his pace. Irene hadn't injured his dominant hand, so the sprain wouldn't hinder Alex too much. He'd learned how to shoot and attack with one hand, anyways.

It didn't mean it didn't hurt.

They walked as quickly as they could without seeming like they were in a rush. Alex looked around, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to check if anyone was behind them. Irene only tugged at him and told him to stop looking back.

Another intersection separated them from their destination. Beltran's address led them to an abandoned warehouse, where Alex assumed he and his client did their drug dealing, but they'd have to cross the street and then take a turn through the back alleys in order to reach it. 

They didn't bother taking their stolen car. They couldn't risk being seen with a license plate, and it sometimes it was faster to just bolt instead of drive. 

He must've drifted off too long, or something, because Irene yanked his arm slightly, digging her fingers into his skin. 

"Pay attention," she ordered quietly.

"Hey," a sharp voice behind Alex said. A few tense moments passed before he turned around, and his knees nearly buckled when he saw a boy who looked exactly like _Andrew_ staring at the two of them. The boy's - Andrew's - eyes were the same exact shade of hazel, his hair was the same shade of blond if not cut shorter, and his face was covered in shadows and ghosts of bruises that didn't belong there.

Alex opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to ask Andrew if he remembered him, he wanted to thank him, he wanted to ask what he was doing here. But even if he could speak, he wouldn't - because resurrecting old relationships was pointing a gun to his forehead while the safety was off. 

His mother's grip on his injured wrist only tightened, and Alex barely suppressed the flinch of pain that darted through him.

Andrew's eyes narrowed as his gaze fell down to where Irene and Alex's hands were connected. Then his lip curled contemptuously as he glared right at Alex's mother and spat venomously, "You're hurting him."

It was then that someone rested their fingers lightly on Andrew's shoulder. "Come on, Aaron," the stranger whispered, taking him - _Aaron_ \- away.

Alex was numb. The pain in his wrist disappeared, and the sudden fury flowing from his mother was nothing. Andrew - Aaron's voice echoed in his ears, a not ghost but a mirage, a hallucination only made real by Irene's trembling rage.

Who was Aaron?

He thought of the yellowing bruises on Aaron's face, the hollowed look in his eyes like he'd been scooped out from the insides. And Alex hysterically thought, _like recognized like._

His mother dragged him across the street before he could ask anything else, before he could call out the boy's name.

\-- 

Alex stared at the new ID and passport in his hands. He blinked, and he saw blood splattering a warehouse wall. He blinked again, and the blood shifted into hazel eyes and twisted frown. He closed his eyes, and Irene and Beltran's voices filtered in. 

"Thank you," his mother was saying. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No, thank you." Beltran's voice was deep and scratchy, grating against Alex's fraying nerves. 

"Then we will be leaving now." They talked for a few more seconds, before Irene's hand was coming painfully down on Alex's shoulder and herding him away.

They remained silent on the walk back. They were to pack as quickly as they could and then head to the airport for Germany next. Irene didn't want to stay in the states anymore, and she'd started forcing Alex to learn German a month ago. He was more or less reaching fluency. 

He sat in the living room, cradling his wrist in one hand while staring blankly at his new ID. His mother busied herself with showering and washing off any evidence of blood, leaving Alex alone to his own thoughts.

For some reason he kept thinking about Aaron. Aaron, Andrew, Aaron, Andrew.

There was no way he could've hallucinated the boy - but if Andrew had a brother, a twin, then Alex should've meet Aaron months ago. When he met Andrew.

He still thought of Andrew sometimes. He'd known Andrew was hurting from _something_ when he'd met him in that town, but he never asked. He knew that asking hurt like salt on a wound, especially when you couldn't answer. 

But most times, he couldn't think of Andrew, or Kevin, or anyone else that he'd met and left. He didn't have the time for that, and his energy was spent.

Andrew and Aaron's issues were for them to solve, not Alex. He'd have to let both of them go so he could stay afloat.

Irene left the bathroom, dressed in her worn gray sweater and faded jeans. She glanced at him for a moment, then retreated to their bedroom.

Alex shut his eyes and sighed. Today was Nathaniel Wesninski's birthday, and his only gifts were a new identity and passport, a sprained wrist, and a new city tomorrow.


	8. nicholas hemmick and stefan flores, 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nicky gave stefan a new year's resolution.

Stefan wrapped his coat tighter around himself, his breath turning into frost as soon as it left him. Snowflakes settled over his hair and shoulders, soft and sublime. Stefan had seen snow before, but he'd never paused to contemplate its beauty. To him and his mother, snow was an obstacle. It slowed them down. 

It wasn't beautiful; it was dangerous.

They were undergoing a rather gentle snowfall, which Stefan was grateful for. The marketplace was still open even though Christmas had passed, and Lisa was off conversing with the worker of a fruit stand. Stefan lingered around the corner, fingers trailing along wooden crates as he pretended to stare at the snowy streets. 

They were running on a very limited budget. Fresh IDs and passports were expensive as hell, and so were enrolling in schools and buying airplane tickets. Lisa wanted to spend as little as possible; what others considered a fortune was a mere deadline for them.

He swiped the nearest fruits - apples - and tucked them inside his coat. He grabbed a loaf of bread, eyes trained on the people milling around him, and quickly slid it into his bag. He even stole a pack of cigarettes while he was at it.

Stefan leaned against the tables, his gaze roaming about for more things to steal. He eventually spotted an alcohol stand, perking up when he noticed the bottles of whiskey there. Flashing a look at his mother, who gave him a subtle nod, Stefan started to make his way over. 

As he approached the stand, Stefan noticed a man with his wallet sticking out of his back pocket. He inched closer to the stranger, pretending to look at the vast collections of cheeses and crackers. As soon as he got close enough, Stefan swiftly plucked the wallet from the man's pocket, flipping through it underneath the table. He quickly pocketed all the cash inside but left the credit cards alone, tossing it to the side so that it landed behind the man's feet.

He subtly unzipped his bag once he arrived at the stand. The woman working there gave him a confused look.

"You're a bit young," she remarked. Stefan slid on an easy smile. 

"Just looking," he replied in German. The lady hummed and went back to reading her newspaper.

He settled on a bottle of whiskey near the end of the stand where the lady wasn't looking. He gave his surroundings a cursory glance, before picking it up and slipping it into his bag. 

Stefan returned to his mother's side a few minutes later. She had her hands tucked into her pockets, but she let Stefan look at the wads of cash she hid in them.

"He wasn't paying attention, damn fool," Lisa muttered, meaning the worker she'd been talking to. Stefan nodded, before following his mother out of the marketplace. They walked quickly, following the route to the house they were currently squatting at.

The sun was beginning to set behind the thick cover of clouds by the time they arrived. Faint pink light spread across the snow, marred by Stefan and Lisa's footprints. She unlocked the door and made her way to the kitchen, taking the cash out of her pockets and shrugging off her coat. Stefan brushed melting snowflakes off his hair and clothes, shutting the door and double-checking that it was locked, before unzipping his bag and dropping the apples, bread, and whiskey onto the table.

"Good," Lisa mused as she watched him. 

Stefan's lips twitched listlessly in the ghost of a smile. His mother was probably just talking about the whiskey brand he chose at random. He kept the cigarettes in his pocket and left the cash he stole from the man's wallet next to his mother's, before retreating to the dining room table.

"Practice your verbs," Lisa reminded him in English. They'd spoken so much German by now that English sounded strange and warped, but Stefan obeyed nonetheless.

He grabbed his German grammar book, flipping it open and whispering conjugations to himself as Lisa prepared dinner. His fingers felt numb and clumsy as he tried to turn the pages. Heat was something they didn't bother wasting money on, and self-pity didn't get him anywhere. That was one of the first lessons Stefan learned ever since the night he and his mother fled.

Lisa joined him at the table thirty minutes later, sliding him a plate of reheated canned pasta. Stefan ate without complaint despite the fact he'd had the same meal for about a week and a half now, careful not to get any sauce on his books. The last time he'd complained about their food, he'd received a harsh beating and three days without any meals.

New Year's Eve was always a terrible affair for the both of them. People flooded the streets celebrating, and anyone could be mingling in the crowds. Anyone could be targeting them, and they would blend in perfectly. Fireworks were loud distractions and sounded too much like gunshots, and holding back his flinches and memories always took too much energy.

They privately celebrated the ending of a year underneath the window of their living room. Lisa opened the bottle of whiskey Stefan had stolen, taking a drink and passing it to him. The whole affair was a familiar, memorized routine by now; it was something they usually did when they were injured and needed stitches, rarely to commemorate the new year. But even Lisa made exceptions sometimes. 

They had survived another year, after all. 

Stefan glanced at the clock as he took a long swig. The whiskey burned on its way down; he didn't think he'd ever get used to it. There were two hours till midnight, and Lisa wouldn't let either of them get the slightest bit tipsy. 

She closed the bottle and tucked it in the kitchen cabinet, before glancing at Stefan. 

"I'm going to sleep," she said as she settled on the couch, meaning Stefan was on for night watch. He nodded and muttered good night, watching as his mother grabbed a thin blanket and draped it over herself. 

Time passed quickly. Stefan untangled himself on the floor and forced himself to stand up, stretching his sore limbs. There were only fifteen minutes left of the year now, and his mother was sound asleep by the looks of it.

He grabbed his coat and his cigarettes, along with his mother's lighter. Silently, he slipped out the front door and locked it, stepping out into the snow. 

Just once, he thought bitterly. Just once, he wanted to experience what everyone else did.

Stefan sat down on the curb outside the house, watching the snow drift down around him. It fell into his hair and hands like confetti, before passing away. 

He stuck a cigarette between his lips, cupping his hands around it as he lit it. Stefan almost never smoked, but he thought the fumes drifting from the end of his cigarette resembled the ghostly imprints that fireworks left in the navy sky.

As he watched the snow fall to the ground, not inhaling any of the smoke but just holding the cigarette close to his chest, he felt a strange but familiar bitterness rise up his whiskey-colored throat. 

It was a hollow sadness, a nostalgia that ached deep in his marrow. A soft grief that ate away at him, chipping away at him like an artist at a sculpture, like wind at a rock. A homemade oblivion, a hopeless snowfall. Slow and all encompassing.

Stefan liked to chase his whiskey with melancholia. It was a system as simple as gravity and planetary orbits. 

This was it. This was the only thing he could look forward to: the brief hours in which his mother was asleep and he could slip out and gaze at the blurry stars. This was the life she promised him: breathing that would never be enough.

The city was beginning to wake up and celebrate, and Stefan should go back inside soon. 

But he didn't.

Stubbing the cigarette out on the snowy ground, Stefan sat back and tugged his knees close to his chest. It was times like this that he felt so dreadfully alone, so close to others but never actually close enough. 

He stayed outside for another five minutes before he heard footsteps approaching him. Stefan glanced to his left, stiffening, but he only saw a boy around a few years older than him approaching him.

Lit only by street lamps and moonlight, Stefan observed the boy's dark curls and skin, shadowed brown eyes, and the way his shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was bringing him down.

"Hey," he said in German when he noticed Stefan's gaze. "Mind if I join you?"

"Sure," Stefan said cautiously. The boy gave him a small smile and sat down beside him, sighing. 

"Not a fan of celebrations?" he asked. 

Stefan turned his gaze away from the boy, glancing at the snowflakes still drifting down, but at a slower pace than before. "No," he replied. His mother hadn't taught him how to hold conversations, and he still never quite learned. 

"I'm Nicky."

"Stefan," he said quietly.

"Are you new here?" Nicky asked, rubbing at something on his chest. Stefan recognized it as a cross necklace. "I walk through this neighborhood a lot, when things get too - much. I haven't seen you."

"I just moved here," Stefan lied. 

"Ah, that makes sense." Nicky glanced at his watch, another smile flickering across his face. "It's almost the new year."

Stefan knew he shouldn't have even stepped outside in the first place, let alone let a stranger sit next to him and _talk_ to him. But that melancholia was still there, growing like a black hole in his chest, and for some reason he found Nicky's presence comforting. At the very least, the boy distracted Stefan from his loneliness. 

"Do you have any resolutions?" Nicky asked after a while of silence.

"Resolutions?"

"You know, goals." He reached around the back of his neck, taking off the necklace and gazing at it. The light from the nearby street lamp glinted off the golden metal. "Things you want to improve about yourself."

"I don't have any," Stefan said shortly. He couldn't quite say that his new year's resolution was to survive another year.

A distracted, wistful smile crossed Nicky's face. It was tinged with sadness more than anything. "Maybe I'll accept myself this year," he said, quietly enough that Stefan wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear it. He shoved his hands into his pocket, his skin suddenly prickling uncomfortably. Nicky didn't seem to mind his silence, running his thumb over the necklace and pursing his lips.

In the distance a faint pop sounded. Stefan barely managed to not jump at the sound as brilliant streaks of glittery red exploded in the sky, leaving behind smoky residue. It lit the street in a brief flash of color as more and more fireworks kept exploding, distant pops over the city. 

"Happy New Year," Stefan found himself saying. Nicky glanced at him, his smile a fraction more genuine.

"Happy New Year," he echoed.

"I should probably get back inside," Stefan said. Nicky nodded, slipping his necklace into his pocket.

"No, yeah. Erik's probably getting worried by now," he said, standing up as well. "Hey. Thanks for tolerating me. I know I talk a lot."

"It's fine." Stefan paused, not bothering to ask who Erik was, his fingers tracing over the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "Thank you."

Nicky hesitated, swinging his arms at his sides. Eventually he settled on another smile and a wave goodbye, before turning around and heading back down the street. Stefan watched him leave, only stepping back inside once he was sure Nicky was gone.

His mother, by some miracle, was still asleep on the couch. Stefan sat down at her feet, cradling his pack of cigarettes close to his chest and closing his eyes.

"This year I'll do better," he whispered, letting his resolution drift to the floor like snow. He wouldn't get distracted by girls. He wouldn't let himself get caught when pick pocketing. He wouldn't miss when he shot. 

He would survive. It was all he could ever do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more fox to go!! strap in kids


	9. matthew boyd and chris sears, 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matthew boyd gave chris sears an anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: graphic violence and injuries, character death, panic attack near the end
> 
> this is most definitely the heaviest chapter, so take care guys. <3

Chris didn't know whether Nathan catching up to them was inevitable or not. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to confront the possibility that maybe all this was for nothing. All these years spent fleeing, hiding, and hurting - they were just a way to delay a death sentence. 

He threw himself into survival, fought a battle he was all but dragged into. The past two years went by in a blur. Whiskey, blood, pavement, running. Repeat. Chris was stuck in an endless loop, a scratched record that played over and over again.

Whiskey, blood, pavement, running.

Repeat.

Don't look back. Don't slow down. Don't trust anyone.

Repeat.

Be a ghost. Be a shadow. Be nothing.

_Repeat._

Nathan wasn't supposed to be a factor in their routine. He was supposed to be a warning, a knife held over their heads by fraying string, something that only endangered them if they slowed down too much.

See, according to that logic, the situation Maria and Chris were in right now should have been impossible. If anything they'd only run faster with each passing year, jumping between cities and personas like light switches. 

Nathan shouldn't have been there in Seattle waiting for them, grin just as haunting as it was eight years ago. 

(Chris had forgotten that his father himself was worse than any nightmare his own brain could conjure).

The only conclusion to draw was that their encounter was unavoidable this whole time - a guillotine slowly, slowly coming down for years.

Thus: Chris could keep running his entire life, running from Nathan, running from Nathaniel, running from death - but all three would still meet him in the end.

Nathan was only the first of the three.

Chris had lost his gun somewhere in the fight when Lola nicked him in the arm with her throwing knife. She pinned him down, taking her time to gloat.

"Look at you, Junior," she cooed as Chris writhed and struggled. Her sharp nails dug into his skin, blood welling underneath them. "You poor, poor thing. What did that bitch do to you? What's your name this time, _Junior_?" She ran her hand through his hair, yanking it. "Once your father is done with her, we'll restore you to your _proper_ place."

"F-Fuck you!" Panic made Chris desperate, and desperate made him reckless. He spat the insult in her face, and for a moment her smug expression went slack. Her eyes widened, her ruby lips agape. 

It bought Chris just enough time to get out. He managed to kick her hard enough to send her sprawling, before scrambling to grab her throwing knife that had skittered off to the side. Lola jumped back onto her feet, snarling.

"You son of a bitch!"

She lunged at him, and Chris slashed wildly with the knife. He managed to stick it into her side, hard enough that it sank all the way down to the hilt. A shriek tore through her throat, but Chris didn't stay long enough to make her stay down. Ignoring the fiery pain from all his wounds, he started running. 

He knew his mother wasn't far behind him, from the gunshots that rang down the hallway, muffled by their trusty silencer. A shout echoed, reverberating in the aftermath of the shots, before footsteps bolted down the hall. 

Chris risked a look behind him, and saw his mother right there.

"Run!" she yelled when she noticed him. He didn't see the way she was holding her abdomen as she caught up to him.

It was by a sheer miracle that they were able to escape with all their belongings intact. Chris practically shoved his mother into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut and turning on the car with violently shaking hands. He thought that if he looked back, he would see Nathan right behind them, smile unnaturally stretched and cleaver ready.

He slammed down on the gas pedals, and they tore away from the wretched city.

\-- 

Chris didn't know how long they were driving. They must've driven for at least a day now. He'd forgotten the pain of his own wounds by then (but maybe it was because Nathan's men had been too focused on Maria to try and fatally injure Chris in any way). 

Adrenaline eventually died away into fear, melting away like the day into night, and his bones felt heavy with a new kind of exhaustion. One that came after brushing so closely with death that he could still feel its impatient imprint on his body. One that told him he couldn't possibly still be alive. 

He occasionally removed his hand from the steering wheel, gripping his wrist tightly as he counted his pulse. It was high from panic, but it was still there.

Maria was too quiet in the passenger seat. Chris assumed it was because she was tired and resting after their encounter, so he left her alone. 

But then the silence stretched on too long, and Chris didn't dare turn on the radio. The quiet crawled with something different, a third invisible presence that had Chris checking the rear view mirror one too many times.

"Mom?" he asked quietly when he finally thought he was going to crawl out of his skin. When she didn't answer, Chris risked a look at her. "Mom?"

Maria twitched, lifting her head from where it was leaning against the window. Chris's heart thudded against his ribcage when he noticed her too-pale pallor, the sweat lining her forehead, the barely there grimace snagged between her teeth. 

"Should we stop now?" he asked, clenching his fists tighter around the steering wheel.

Her eyes slid to him, hazy and glazed over. Hoarsely, she asked, "Where are we?"

"I think we're close to the Californian border." 

Maria nodded, leaning her head back again and squeezing her eyes shut. 

Chris didn't know what else to say. He didn't even know if he could properly register what just happened. It all still felt like a dream, a nightmare, one that couldn't possibly be real. But if he stopped long enough to contemplate what happened, he would give his father yet another chance to catch up again.

He swore to himself that he would never let that happen another time.

(He'd just have to shove this memory aside, much like everything else in his life).

They had just passed the border when Maria reanimated. Her breaths were too loud and sharp, almost wheezing. If possible, she'd gotten even paler.

"We have to stop," Chris said, glancing at her again. He felt his panic flaring again, crawling over him and tightening his chest. Maria glared at him, her face twisted. 

"No," she said harshly. "Just - keep driving. I'm fine."

"Mom - "

"Listen to me, Chris." Maria's fingers clenched in her shirt. "Keep going."

Chris forced himself to count as high as he could in every language he knew, flooring the gas pedal and speeding down the lonely highway. 

He could only tolerate another few hours of Maria's increasingly harsh breathing before he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin. He kept darting cautious glances at his mother, who was staring down at her bloodstained hands like she'd never seen them before.

They were driving alongside an empty stretch of beach when Maria suddenly sucked in a shuddering breath and said, "Drive down."

Chris followed her orders, pulling off the highway the first chance he got and detouring down a narrow road leading toward the beach. The car bumped and jolted as he drove them down the uneven trail, eventually reaching the sand. 

Everything was eerie and ghostly, bathed in an unfamiliar golden light, as out of place as a gunshot in the empty nighttime alley. 

Chris managed to drive the car to a more secluded area, before shutting the engine and turning to his mother. "Let me see," he muttered, already reaching into his duffel bag for their last few first-aid supplies. 

"No," Maria wheezed.

"Mom, I have to take a look." His voice started shaking, and he didn't know why. This felt too strange, too much like an ending. Sitting together in a car on an empty beach underneath a hollow sunset, it felt like the ending to a terrible book. Nothing was right or tied-up at all.

"It's no use, Chris." 

He froze at the resignation in her voice. It was weary and dusty. She was tired, tired, tired, and the lack of fire in her tone was as jarring as a knife to his chest.

Fear gave way to panic again. "W-We have to call the hospital," Chris said wildly, reaching into his pocket, his hand trembling so badly that his phone nearly slipped out. "I-I can't - I have to - "

Maria grabbed Chris's collar, tugging him close so that he could hear each one of her wheezing breaths, scraping against her metal lungs. Her other hand grasped his, slick with blood and desperation.

"Abram," she whispered harshly. Chris felt his heart jolt, the sound of his name unfamiliar as it was something they'd always whispered in the dead of the night, not on a beach at sundown. 

"I - "

"You have to promise me." Even with her strength waning and her grip slipping, her voice was strong and hushing, tight with years of suppressed pain suddenly escaping all at once. "Abram. Look at me."

Chris stared at her. "I - _Mom_ \- "

"Don't look back," Maria said wetly. She was starting to gasp, her grip on his hand weakening. "Don't slow down. Don't trust anybody."

When Chris didn't repeat her mantra, she sucked in a shuddering breath and hoarsely shouted, " _Promise me_!"

"I-I promise," Chris whispered brokenly, his heart stuttering. Some trembling, childish part of his mind was screaming. _This couldn't be happening._

"Then say it," she gasped.

_I'm not ready. **Please.**_

"D-Don't look back." The words hurt like glass, stabbed like knives, tortured and bruised like starving hands in the dark. "Don't slow d-down. D-Don't...don't trust anybody."

“Be anyone but yourself, and never be anyone for too long."

Chris repeated, “Be anyone but myself, and never be anyone for too long.” The words tasted like bitter alcohol and unshed tears.

Maria nodded, and he saw the blood staining her teeth. The promises tore themselves from his chest, and suddenly he kept whispering them to her over and over again as she struggled to breathe.

"Don't look back. Don't slow down. Don't trust anybody."

_Repeat._

He saw the moment Maria Sears left her and replaced her with a broken Mary Hatford.

 _Stop it,_ he wanted to say. _Stop it. I'm not strong enough._

His mother was no hero. She was everything a hero wasn't: a runaway, a hider, a liar, a fake. But it was the hero that died the gruesome death, the long one, the agonizing one with blood trickling from hourglass lips and breaths like the chimes on a grandfather clock. Mary Hatford died gasping for one last breath, grasping for her life, with _Abram_ on her crimson lips as she finally stopped seeing.

Nathan had destroyed her. Ravaged her, like a wildfire. Chris was left standing in his aftermath, staring at her black and red hills and wondering, _what was next._

Chris sat there long after she died, staring blankly at her. Her hand had long since fallen out of his grip, but he reached forward and grabbed her wrist anyways, pressing his fingers into her pulse - where it should've been.

Silence.

Mechanically, he reached forward and felt her abdomen. It was swollen and stiff. Internal bleeding, then.

_You should have noticed._

He tried prying her body off the seats. The blood had dried onto the vinyl, an awful ripping sound tearing through the ringing silence as Chris tried to move her. He reached into her pocket and took her phone, staring at its bloodstained screen.

_She said she was fine._

Useless, useless, useless. Chris was alone in the arms of an apocalypse - but here, he thought the end of the world would be louder.

No, this was how the world was supposed to end, wasn't it? Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He didn't know when he started moving, when he opened the trunk, or when he started dousing the entire car in gasoline. He didn't know when he reached into his pocket and grabbed his lighter, watching the flame flicker on a little too close to his fingertip.

He only knew the roar of pain and ocean waves, and a storm of _something,_ like he was the sole survivor left on earth with only his ghosts to keep him company. They whispered in his ear. Abram, Abram, _Abram._

Nathaniel.

Chris.

_Mary Hatford._

The lighter landed on the gasoline, and the fire devoured the car like a wild animal.

Chris stood there, staring blankly at the body-turned-bonfire. Mary's silhouette remained inside the car, a ghostly stare on her face as the fire ate away at her, as Chris imagined her skin melting off and revealing forlorn bones in place. Sparks flew and embers died, tendrils of flame flicked outwards too close to Chris, and he didn't flinch.

He burned everything. He wondered if he was screaming, or if that noise was just the shrieking of the flames.

For a funny moment, Chris contemplated jumping in.

There was a fire and an ocean, a plethora of choices. To run or to stay, to be or not to be, to sink into the sand with his mother or to carry her on and keep running.

Chris waited until the car was completely reduced to ashes, but his job was barely halfway done. Human bones never completely burned. There was still a part of Mary Hatford to bury. There would always be a part of her to bury.

Her bones were charred and unrecognizable, but Chris picked them up and put them in his bag anyways. His fingers burned and ached, but he ignored the pain. He walked a mile away from the site before settling on a spot not too far from the waves.

Kneeling down, he numbly dug a hole in the sand before placing his mother's bones in it, deep enough down that it couldn't be unearthed by waves or feet. Then he swept the sand over it, running his hand over the top of the mound so that it blended perfectly with the beach, and stood back up.

He traced his steps. Two, four, eighteen, thirty-five. He left the grave unmarked, not because Mary Hatford didn't deserve to be remembered, but because she couldn't afford to be remembered. The most she'd ever get was a toast from her brother as he gazed into a snowy London, the most she'd ever get was the patter of Chris's feet running away.

The only eulogy Mary would ever hear was the faint hiss of the ocean waves. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

Chris stared at the burner phones in his hands. He was gripping them so hard his bones could have shattered, but he started his funeral march down the side of the beach to the water. 

Numb, numb, numb. 

He couldn't feel a thing, not even when he threw the phones into the gentle sea with all his might and watched the waves eat up his last connection to the world.

He couldn't feel a thing, not even when he looked over the scene one last time, making sure he'd taken everything he needed and _destroyed_ everything else.

He couldn't feel a thing, not even when he was walking down the edge of an empty highway, his fingers aching from where they clutched the strap of his duffel bag, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.

Don't look back. Don't slow down.

_Don't trust anyone._

He walked down the edge of the highway like a ghost. There was a very, very thin wall holding everything back from hitting Chris, and he prayed it would hold up long enough for him to at least get off the road.

His breath hitched. His steps teetered. His mother was dead. At one point he stopped to vomit at the edge of the road, but that was that.

Chris didn't know how long he was walking. He thought the sky went dark, but then he looked up and it was light again. 

He was standing in front of a diner, and his hands hurt so badly from being clenched against his duffel bag for - a day? Two? 

His mother would've beaten him for losing track.

Nausea threatened to turn him over at the thought of Mary, but it wouldn't matter, since Chris had nothing to throw up. He looked down at himself, at his grimy clothes and the dried blood caking his fingernails. 

He needed to clean himself up, to check his own wounds before they got infected. The diner was his best bet.

The bell chimed when he entered, and the lady at the counter looked up and gasped when she saw Chris's appearance. He probably looked as bad as he felt.

"Dear! What happened to you?" she gasped, hurrying up to Chris.

"S-Sorry. I got mugged," Chris murmured. His voice was hoarse and barely there, but the lady heard him nonetheless.

"Do you want me to call the police?" she asked. 

Chris shook his head. He suddenly felt dizzy - he didn't know if it was hunger, exhaustion, or grief. Or all three.

"N-No," he said quietly. "Where - could you show me where the restrooms are, please?"

"Of course." Her face was pale and she still looked shocked, but the lady politely showed him to the restrooms. Chris thanked her and pushed the door open, promptly locking himself in the stall and dropping his bag.

He cataloged his injuries carefully, before reaching into his bag for spare bandages and wrapping them around himself. They weren't fatal - not like Mary's wounds were - but they still could be if they got infected. 

Chris finished fixing his bandages after five minutes, then he left the stall and headed toward the sinks. He washed his hands, scrubbing them thoroughly and ignoring the way the soap stung his cuts. Dried blood turned the water pink as it ran into the drain.

He leaned heavily against the sink, bracing his body against it. A shuddering breath passed through his lungs, an unhinged window, and Chris looked at himself in the mirror.

He was the punchline of life's sick jokes, he thought. If he removed the hair dye and bruises and contacts, he was just like his father. Every inch. Auburn hair, icy eyes, cold. 

Dead.

Zero trace of his mother remained. 

She was gone.

And then everything hit Chris like a terrible tsunami wave. He was impaled, he dropped his bag, he fell to his knees. He thought that if he reached up, he would find a knife stuck into his chest, thrown there by Nathan's hand and Mary's - Mary, _Mom's_ \- death. 

He'd never felt grief so monstrous. It tore him apart from the insides, biting and ripping his heart's flesh. It hollowed him out until he was only a shadow boy, a paper mask, an unknown. Broken shards of glass that would never be whole again - because his mother was gone, his _mother_ was gone - he _burned her body_ \- and God, he didn't know what he was supposed to fucking _do_ anymore.

Mary Hatford was gone. She was a pile of bones buried in an unmarked grave in some beach on the California coast, and Chris's hands were clean but still covered with ash and dried blood. He looked over his shoulder and half-expected to see her standing there, a silhouette and not a bonfire, but she wasn't _there._

Chris could say she was gone a hundred times, a thousand, a million. No amount of words could fill the black hole growing in his chest, eating him alive.

He was alone. _God,_ was he alone. He was only Chris Sears now, a hastily constructed paper doll of a boy to cover the true monstrosity that was Nathaniel Wesninski, to shield the only truth that was No-Name Abram. It was only him and his father, and the rest of the world and all the stars that nobody mourned and all his past lives that no one would remember.

Abram was a ghost with something to say that no one would ever hear, a phantom who never made it. A boy who went missing without a grave.

Finally, his control fell apart as terrible sobs wracked his body. Someone was stabbing him, countless times, twisting the dagger and the blood - it was pouring down his face - but it wasn't blood, those were _tears._

There was going to be a flood, it was Chris's, and Abram hoped to whatever was out there that he would just drown in it.

His body heaved with the force of his cries, but he nearly bit through his lip trying to silence himself the way Mary had taught him. Chris curled an arm around himself, digging his fingers into his ribs in a futile effort to ground himself. Then he pressed his other fist to his mouth, biting down onto his skin as a thin whine trailed from between his lips.

He almost wished Mary was there to beat some sense into him. Don't slow down. Her knuckles were raised. _Don't slow down._

But she. Was. Gone.

Grief was a robber. It broke into Chris's home, stole everything that was his, and fled - it left his windows and doors wide open, hanging by the hinges.

Chris didn't know how long he sat there, curled beneath the diner sink. All he knew was that suddenly, he couldn't breathe, and he thought he was going to be sick again, maybe he was actually dying, and there was the sound of a door opening and closing, and footsteps approaching him.

The man's voice was muffled and swam in Chris's ears. He stilled, or at least he tried to. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in his sobs, his hands hurt, and his entire body _ached._

The footsteps stopped. Chris didn't look up, but he could sense the presence of someone crouching down beside him.

A voice was speaking to him, but it was soft and muffled by the ringing in Chris's ears. A hand rested on his own, and he flinched harshly enough to dislodge a few of his bandages.

He managed a shuddering gasp, coughing sharply and forcing himself to look up. There was a boy kneeling in front of him, brown eyes wide with concern, lips moving with empty words. He was holding Chris's hands, splaying his fingers outwards. 

" - your fingers," he was saying. "Hey, you're okay. Can you count your fingers?"

Chris blinked rapidly, forcing his uncooperative lungs to take another breath. It hurt him, it nearly cleaved him in two, but he opened his mouth and his ghost voice rasped through his vocal chords.

"One," he whispered, and the boy smiled encouragingly. 

"That's it," he said, his thumb brushing over the back of Chris's hand. "Keep going."

"Two," Chris mumbled in between broken breaths. "Three."

The boy squeezed his hands and only let go when Chris finally painstakingly got to ten. His chest felt like a rubber band about to snap, and his limbs were rock heavy. Chris let his head fall back, bumping against the tile walls.

"Are you okay?" the boy asked. His voice was kind and soft, something Chris's mother had never been. She had been hard edges and steel. 

He squeezed his eyes shut thinking of her.

"I'm fine," he rasped when he realized the boy had asked him a question. He knew that having a breakdown in the bathroom of some diner in the middle of nowhere wasn't _fine,_ but Mary Hatford was gone and if Chris had noticed sooner she might've still been alive, and she was fine, fine, until days, maybe hours ago - and as long as Chris was still alive he was always going to be _fine._

The boy eyed him skeptically, but didn't push it. Instead he smiled again, glancing at Chris's hands resting in his lap. "My mom taught me that trick," he said, "when I was having panic attacks. Counting my fingers always helped. It was like an anchor. Made me feel a bit more tethered to myself."

Chris stared at him. He felt like a flickering mirage - life-weary and exhausted. He summoned something to say, but nothing came up. Matt didn't seem to mind, sitting down and crossing his legs. It was just the two of them, on the floor in a diner bathroom.

"What's your name?" Matt asked. 

"Chris," he said quietly. It felt like a snare in his mouth, a broken twig that pierced his foot. But Matt accepted it like a drop of gold, smiling warmly and nodding. He didn't stare at the tear stains running down Chris's cheeks or the trembles still wracking his entire frame. 

"My mom comes by here sometimes," he said, filling in the silence. "Well, she travels a lot. She's a boxer, you see. We've been taking this road trip through all the states, and we went all the way from New York to here. She's getting me to try and be healthier."

Chris eyed Matt as he spoke, his gaze eventually falling down to Matt's bare arms. Lining the expanse of dark skin were needle bruises and pinpricks - track marks. Matt seemed to notice his gaze, his smile dimming slightly. 

"So far, it's working," he said, tracing a finger up his marks almost subconsciously. Chris looked away, slumping slightly against the wall. He felt so exhausted he could probably fall asleep right there.

He summoned the strength to say, "That's good." 

Matt grinned again, before standing up and offering a hand to Chris. "You look like you're starving, no offence. I can grab you a coffee and sandwich. The sandwiches here are actually really good." 

Chris stared blankly at Matt's hand. He still felt too raw, too hollow, like there was something still writhing in his heart, eating him away. If his mother were here, she would've gotten Chris out ten minutes ago. But his muscles were cramped from sitting in the same position for so long, and his mother was still gone.

So he accepted Matt's hand, and he hauled Chris upright without much hassle. Chris kept an iron grip on his duffel, suppressing a wince when the movement jostled his injuries. Matt led him out of the bathroom, checking something on his phone before having Chris sit down at a booth near the window. 

"My mom's at the gas station but she has my wallet. I'm just gonna grab it real quick." Matt flashed Chris another brief smile, before jogging out of the diner. 

Chris sank into the leather seat, wringing his hands in his clothes. He tried not to close his eyes for too long, or else he would start seeing fire and blood and Nathan all over again. He stared out the window, watching as Matt rounded the corner for the gas station down the street. 

There was no way Chris could stay any longer. Grief was a crushing weight against his chest, pressing harshly against his sternum. It pulsed with every beat of his heart, alive and aching. Without his mother, Chris felt off balance. His back felt too cold, his hands felt too empty. 

He was on his feet before he really registered what he was doing. He was asking the same lady at the register for a pen, which she gave to him with a concerned look. He was scribbling something onto a napkin, his handwriting just barely legible enough. 

_Thank you._

The door swung shut on the way out, and Chris was running.

\-- 

He'd cleaned himself up enough that drivers were willing to stop and help him. He managed to get one driver with a bright (and hollow) smile and an excuse that his other car broke down, and he needed to get to his aunt's place. 

He let the driver drop him off by the state border between California and Nevada, leaving her with a large tip and friendly wave. By the time Chris arrived at a rest stop, the sky was already dark. Stars littered the clouds, spilled like oil droplets. 

Chris sat down on an empty bench, holding his duffel close to his chest as he huddled inside his jacket for warmth. He stared at the stars, knowing that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep anyways.

Perhaps his mother was up there now. Another name erased, the world a person lighter and a soul emptier, but no one would know about her. No one but Chris. 

No one but Abram.

But Abram was a safe place, a name whispered in the dark, passed gently between trembling hands and bloodied lips. Abram wasn't meant for Chris. Abram was a truth that Chris couldn't touch, for he'd burn himself and leave ugly, incriminating fingerprints in his wake.

The wind picked up, and Chris shivered. He shut his eyes, closing out the imprints of burning metal and flesh and blank, dead eyes, and he held his funeral for two.

For his mother. 

For Abram.

Mary still died alone, no matter how close Chris tried to hold her. And Abram was going to die alone, no matter how hard Chris still fought for him. 

_You keep going, Abram,_ his mother would have told him.

But they were both dead.

**Author's Note:**

> i should stop posting so many works but i also have too many ideas that i want to write so here ya go (slams on table with 20 dollar bill) take it
> 
> i'm excited to be writing this!! this is gonna be neil-centric of course, but i want to focus on what his life on the run was like. nora didn't have specific stories about it so i wanted to come up with some that hopefully will do her ideas justice. strap in kiddos, this is gonna be really fuckin sad!!


End file.
